FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


sec 
^52  2. 


.   # 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

Princeton  Theological  Seminary  Library 


http://archive.org/details/laysofmanyhOOmayl 


MANY     HOURS 


// 


ANNE    WALTER    MAYLIN. 


PHILADELPHIA! 
H.    HOOKER,    16    SOUTH    SEVENTH    ST. 

184  7. 


King  &  Baird,  Printers,  No.  9  George  St. 


It  is  the  author's  prayer  that  however  slight  be  the 
claim  of  this  volume  on  literary  merit,  nothing  may  be 
found  in  it  which  is  not  in  harmony  with  the  spirit  of 
devotion  towards  God,  and  sympathy  with  the  interests, 
temporal  and  spiritual,  of  fallen,  suffering  humanity. 

A.  W.  M. 

Salem,  New  Jersey,  1841. 


CONTENTS. 


T 

PAQE 

Introductory  Lines,         .... 

9 

The  Retrospect,                    .... 

11 

Life's  First  Hours,         ..... 

12 

The  World  of  Thought,      .... 

13 

The  Heart's  Longings,               .... 

16 

"  Found  Wanting,"             .... 

20 

To  a  Friend  on  her  Wedding  Day, 

22 

"  The  Heart  knoweth  its  own  Bitterness," 

25 

Earth's  Oppressions,      ..... 

26 

The  Fruit  of  Suffering,        .... 

27 

A  Song  of  the  Bloodless  War, 

29 

Gold,             ...... 

31 

The  One  Way  to  Heaven,         .... 

32 

A  Prayer  in  Indisposition, 

33 

The  Rainbow  at  Niagara,          .... 

35 

The  Heart's  Reviving,         .... 

36 

Psalm  iv.  4,        . 

37 

"All  is  Vanity,"     ..... 

38 

Stanzas,              ...... 

39 

The  Sisters'  Farewell,         .... 

40 

My  own  Farewell,         , 

43 

The  Invalid  Laborer,    .       . 

45 

A  Recollection,              . 

46 

The  Widow's  Mite,             .... 

49 

"  Communion  with  the  Unseen," 

Recollection  of  President  Nott, 

The  Lady's  Day-Dream, 

The  Cry  of  the  Dumb  Creation, 

Intellectual  Pleasures, 

To  a  Friend  in  Affliction,    . 

What  is  All,  and  What  is  Nothing 

To  Miss ,      . 

A  Contrast, 

Aspirations, 

Thoughts  on  passing  West  Point, 

Danger  and  Deliverance,     . 

Loneliness, 

Depression, 

The  Duty  of  the  Lyre, 

Verses  written  in  Sickness, 

On  the  President's  Death, 

The  Spanish  Bell,   . 

Thunder  and  Lightning, 

Humanity — an  Incident, 

Hymn, 

Stanzas, 

The  Past  and  the  Present, 

Christ's  Resurrection, 

Aspirations  after  Religious  Truth 

Thanksgiving, 

To  my  Father,  . 

Departure  of  the  Israelites, 

"  God  is  our  Refuge," 

Written  after  visiting  Mrs.  Sigourney: 

The  Pen, 

Written  after  meeting  Miss  D.  L.  Dix 

Genius  and  Feeling, 

Inactivity,    .... 

The  Pharisee  and  Publican, 


Residence, 


Recollection  of  a  Departed  Friend, 

To  the  Lyre,      .... 

On  the  Death  of  a  Child,     . 

Intellectual  Responsibility, 

Stanzas,  .... 

Written  in  the  prospect  of  Death, 

The  Eighty  Flowers,     . 

The  Butterfly's  Appeal, 

Hymn,    ..... 

An  Inquiry,  .... 

St.  John's  Church, 

Written  after  reading  some  very  fine  Poetry, 

Modern  Improvements, 

The  Mother  of  the  Gracchi, 

To  a  Friend,      .... 

To  the  Memory  of  A.  W.  M.  of  Tennessee, 

Sabbath  Hymn, 

Sabbath  Thoughts, 

Isaiah  v.  4-7,     .... 

A  Thought  at  Niagara, 

The  Hour  of  Sadness, 

Salome,        ..... 

On  the  Death  of  Miss  Jewsbury, 

On  Reading  the  Life  of  Jane  Taylor, 

The  Guides  of  Life,      . 

Written  after  reading  Carleton's  Tale  of  the  Clarione 

Consolation  for  the  Afflicted,    . 

"  My  Heart  within  me  was  Desolate," 

"  My  Strength  is  made  Ferfect  in  Weakness, 

The  Pleasures  of  our  Daily  Paths, 

Hebrews  xii.  1,2, 

Hymn,  ..... 

To ,  and ,       . 

The  Poet,  .... 


FAQE 

117 


INTRODUCTORY     LINES. 


Spirit  of  her!  who  on  my  infant  lay 

Smil'd  with  a  gentle  love,  and  tender  pleasure, 
Whose  life's  pure  lesson,  making  richer  treasure 

Her  faithful  precepts, — taught  the  narrow  way 

The  Saviour  taught,  when  He  said — "  Watch  and  pray  !" 
Taught  pity's  throb  for  every  sad  one's  sorrow, 

Sweet  deeds  of  kindness  to  each  child  of  clay, 
And  the  meek  faith,  that  ever,  its  to-morrow 

Trusted  with  God,  still  grateful  for  to-day  : — 
To  thee,  more  than  to  all  on  earth  I  love, 
I  dedicate  my  page.     Mother  !  to  thee  above  ! — 

Oh  !  from  thy  blissful  dwelling,  if  'tis  giv'n 
To  prompt  thy  child  with  angel  ministry, 
Blest  Spirit !  of  that  page  the  guardian  be  ! 
Nor  'mid  its  gather'd  leaves  let  there  be  lying 
One,  that  this  heart  might  wish  to  blot,  in  dying, 

One,  that  might  cause  a  pang  to  thine — in  heaven. 


LAYS 


MANY      HOURS 


THE    RETROSPECT. 

How  have  I  long'd  for  fame  ! — How  have  I  panted 

To  live  on  earth  beyond  earth's  little  day 
In  what  the  mind  might  do  !  Sweet  hope  !   that  haunted 

The  earliest  pulses  of  this  breathing  clay  ! 
It  spoke  in  forest  shade, — in  sunset's  beaming, 

It  whisper'd  from  the  stream — the  sky — the  flower  : 
And  pointed,  through  Time's  pale  perspective  gleaming, 

A  path,  resplendent  with  the  soul's  high  power. 

But  this  was  not  to  be.     Oh  !  far  too  kindly 

I  nurs'd  the  folly  which  but  smiled  to  frown : 
How  tenderly  I  cherish'd  it !  how  blindly  ! 

'Twas  but  a  dream's  brief  meteor, — seen — and  gone  ! 
I  felt  not,  in  the  longing  of  my  spirit, 

Its  own  deep  poverty,  its  own  small  power : 
I  saw  not,  gifts  like  mine  might  ne'er  inherit 

Of  happy  Genius  the  successful  dower. 


12 


Now,  if  a  passing  wild-bud  I  may  scatte/ 

By  wayside  walk,  'tis  all  I  hope  or  ask  : 
Where  deep  and  searing-  griefs  the  spirit  shatter, 

No  more  in  Fancy's  sunbeam  can  it  bask. 
Yes !  my  soul's  early  garniture  has  faded  ! 

And  He  said  "  No," — and  made  my  bright  hope  dim, 
Whose  will,  ('tis  best !) — that  heart's  young  picture  shaded. 

To  bring  it,  with  its  broken  reeds,  to  Him ! 


LIFE'S   FIRST   HOURS. 

Past  are  they  now,  but  lovely  were  the  hours 

When,  Poesy,  thy  rainbow  arch'd  my  sky  ! 

Circling  its  bound  with  fairest  tracery 
Of  living  hues.     O  !  bright  were  then  the  flowers, 

The  hills,  the  sunset !  all  were  felt  and  seen 
Cloth'd  in  a  thousand  charms.     Each  changeful  dress 
Of  varying  seasons,  Summer's  loveliness, 

Spring's  blushing  blossoms,  Autumn's  russet  sheen, 
Or  "  vapors,  clouds,  and  storms,"  in  Winter  heard 

Along  the  troubled  sky,  all,  all  were  fair  ! 
All  wak'd  the  mind's  imaginings  ;  all  stirred 

The  living  stream  of  Feeling,  to  compare 
Each  form,  in  Fancy's  rich  prismatic  light : 
Ah  !  Life's  first  charm,  how  sweet !  to  tarry,  but  too  bright ! 


THE    WORLD    OF    THOUGHT. 


Look  on  an  empire  ;— Mind,  and  Nature,  ours  !" 

MRS.    HEMAXS. 


The  high  communings  of  the  mind 

Among  the  living  forms  of  soul, 
Nor  time  can  chain,  nor  earth  can  bind, 
Nor  power  control. 


Light  as  the  wing  that  parts  the  sky, 
Their  silent  pinions  swiftly  move ; 
Piercing  the  wide  Immensity 
Around — above. 


Free  as  the  air,  that  chainless  flies, 

Speed  they  upon  their  winged  way; 
Aerial  mandates  bid  them  rise, 
And  they  obey. 


Oh!  mystic  power  that  guides  their  flight 
Through  glorious  realms  of  mental  bliss 
Through  Meditation's  fields  of  light, 
Thought's  vast  abyss  ! 

2 


14 

Shrink  they  from  those  with  whom  they  own 

Life's  beaten  track  1  whose  accents  thrill 
All  discord  on  their  heart's  deep  tone, 
A  jargon  still  1    ■ 


Lo  !  in  the  hallow'd  realms  of  thought, 
What  glorious  fellowship  they  meet ! 
The  good,  the  great,  the  heavenly  taught, 
Their  spirits  greet. 

Nor  ages  of  the  past  alone 

Their  treasury  of  riches  bring  : 
Each  little  moment,  of  its  own 

Hath  wealth's  pure  spring. 

The  sun-tipp'd  cloud  whose  border  lies 
In  brightness  on  the  evening  heaven  ; 
The  hour  of  morn's  full  harmonies, 
To  gladness  given ; 


The  common  sky  that  spreads  above, 

Its  canopy  of  gentle  blue  ; 
The  silence  of  the  deep  green  grove, 
Its  flowers  and  dew  ; 


The  voice  of  night  in  storm  and  snow 

Or  calling  from  the  quiet  sky, 
Where  Luna's  crescent  pales  the  glow 
Of  stars  on  high ; 


15 


All — all  have  meaning  : — language  all, 

Still  speaking  to  the  inner  heart: 
And  the  deep-feeling  bosom  call 
To  stand  apart 

From  earth's  low  follies,  from  its  strife, 

From  its  unworthy  things  of  love, 
To  seek  the  spirit's  purer  life 
In  God  above. 


In  the  high  treasures  He  hath  given, 

Though  seldom  as  with  fervor  sought, 
Within  that  little  earthly  heaven, 
The  home  of  thought! 


Pure  keep  that  home ! — that  He  may  bless, 

And  in  His  teaching  enter  in, 
Who  guides,  to  Truth  and  Righteousness, 
From  sense  and  sin  ! 


16 


THE  HEART'S  LONGINGS  ON  LOOKING  AT  THE  WORLD. 


Wealth  !  oh!  that  I  had  wealth  ! 

To  be  the  bounteous  giver 
Of  good  and  blessed  things, 
And  bear,  on  Plenty's  wings, 

Joy,  flowing  like  a  river  ! 

To  see  the  pale  lip  quiver 
Of  Hunger,  Pain,  and  Woe, 

In  new  and  grateful  gladness  ! 
To  mark  the  warm  tear  flow, 

No  more  the  tear  of  sadness! 
To  bless  the  pining  seed 

Of  squalidness  and  toil 

That  drags  on  Earth's  cold  soil, 
With  Labor's  generous  meed ! 
Oh  !  my  pent  soul  is  burning 

To  place  in  each  thin  hand 
The  lawful,  rightful  earning 

Withheld  in  Christian  land  ! 
To  clothe  Want's  shivering  limbs, 

To  see  the  poor  man  righted  ; 
To  wake  the  cheerful  hymns 

Of  Industry  requited ! 


17 


Strength  !  oh  !  that  I  had  Strength  I 

To  rouse  the  spirits  up, 

In  lethargy  that  mope 
O'er  their  own  good  or  ill, 
To  others',  callous  still ! 

To  stir  the  wave  of  Mind, 
To  bid  the  tide  of  feeling, 
Through  thousand  bosoms  stealing, 

Flow,  for  our  suffering  kind  ! 
Or,  when  my  full  heart  grows 

Heavy  with  aching  thought 
Of  Life's  unnumbered  woes, — 

To  feel  that  I  had  taught 
One  spirit  to  awake, 

One  breast  with  deeper  tone 
To  feel — to  weep — to  ache,— 

Nor  weep  and  ache  alone, 
But  act,  and  speak,  and  move, 

In  suffering's  cause  of  weakness, 
Lab'ring,  'mid  works  of  love, 

With  Truth's  and  Virtue's  meekness ! 


Power !  would  that  I  had  Power  ! — 

To  shake  the  hearts  of  stone 
That,  in  Pride's  moated  castles 

Sit  selfishly  alone ! 
Heedless  Earth's  cry  of  sorrowing 

From  those  who  faint  and  toil, 
Scarce  from  stern  Grandeur  borrowing 

A  breathing  on  its  soil ! 


18 

To  spread,  o'er  land  and  sea, 

The  arm  of  strong  Protection, 
Where-e'er  the  helpless  be, 

Of  every  clime's  complexion : 
To  shield  the  homeless  poor, 

Who  droop  in  trembling  sorrow, 
Whose  part,  to-day,  to-morrow, 

Is  ever to  endure  ! 

And  where  the  weeping  willow 
Of  sadness  now  is  seen, 
To  plant  bright  evergreen, 

And  Joy's  fresh  rose  to  guide ! 
His  silken,  downy  pillow 
To  steal  from  pamper'd  Pride  ; 
To  win  from  rich-robed  Pleasure 
Her  hoards  of  idle  treasure, 
And  make,  of  gold  and  gems, 
Abiding  diadems  ! 

Such  as  on  angel-brow 
Might  rest, — illum'd  the  while 
With  God's  benignant  smile, 
And  Heaven's  responding  glow 


I  have  not  Wealth  :  Thou  know'st  it, 

Thou,  who  hast  given  me  bread  : 
Power  %  Strength  % — I  cannot  boast  it 

Oh  !  aching  heart  and  head, 
What  can  ye  do  for  sorrow  ! 

What  can  ye  do  to  bless 
This  world,  whose  each  to-morrow 

Makes  not  its  suffering  less  ! 


19 

Alas  !  not  these  possessing, 

My  lowly  prayer  must  rise 
Up  to  that  God,  whose  blessing 

Marks  each  mute  sacrifice, 
That  He  my  soul  would  keep 
From  apathy's  dead  sleep, 
Teach  it  for  misery's  smart 
And  every  aching  heart 
Still  mournfully  to  weep, 
Still  tenderly  to  feel, 
Though  impotent  to  heal ! 

Still  by  a  kind  smile  bless 
As  He  hath  made  it  able, 
The  face,  or  pale,  or  sable, 

That  saddens  with  distress  ! 

Still  speak  an  earnest  word 
For  Woe  that  sits  alone, 
Tho',  by  its  feeble  tone 

No  other  breast  be  stirred. 
If  only  in  my  own 

Its  echo  may  be  heard 

Each  kind  pulse  quickening, 
He — He  may  bless  the  mite 

I  to  His  treasury  bring, 

And  Love's  poor  offering 
Make  welcome  in  His  sight. 


20 


FOUND  WANTING/-!) aniel  v.  27. 


What  if  a  Byron's  power  intense 

Dwelt  in  my  soul,  to  sweep 
Amid  Thought's  splendid  affluence, 

And  Feeling's  fearful  deep  : 
What  if  a  Crichton's  various  lore 

Of  Science  and  of  Art, 
I  might  in  Memory's  tablet  store, 

And  skilfully  impart : 

What  if  a  Burhe-\\ke  eloquence 

Upon  my  accents  hung, 
Pouring  the  magic  spirit  thence 

Which  British  senate  rung  : 
What  if  an  Alexander's  might 

To  guide  a  nation's  will 
Could,  with  all-potent  spell,  indite 

My  every  bidding  still : 

What  if  an  Ossiarfs  gentle  dream 
Were  mine,  of  moonbeams  pale, 

And  blue-eyed  maids  by  Clutha's  stream, 
And  Morven's  sighing  gale  : 


21 

What  if  a  Waverley  might  start 

Forth  from  my  ready  pen, 
And  old  Mid-Lothian's  noble  Heart 

In  it,  awoke  again  : 

What  if  the  strains  from  Handel's  lyre 

My  hand  could  proudly  call, 
To  thrill,  as  with  electric  fire, 

The  answering  breasts  of  all : 
What  if  the  forms  a  Raphael  drew 

My  fingers  could  design, 
And,  like  the  ancient  artist,  flew 

No  "  day  without  a  line  :"* 

What  if  the  tongues  a  Porson  spoke 

My  own  could  speak  at  will, 
And  I  the  critic-art  awoke 

With  linguist's  faultless  skill : 
WThat  if  a  Galileo's  gaze 

To  read  the  heavens,  I  knew, 
And  wealth  that  Rothschild's  eye  surveys 

Gave  me  its  golden  hue : 

Ah  !  what  were  these,  if  callous  still 
To  the  high  calls  of  Heaven, 

To  Thee,  Great  God  !  this  heart  and  wil 
Were  not  in  meekness  given  ? 

And,  at  the  last,  my  soul  should  stand 

Rejected,  lost,  on  Thy  left  hand  ] 

*  Apelles. 


22 


TO  A  FRIEND  ON  HER  WEDDING-DAY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  HER  AS  FROM  HER  MOTHER. 

Joy  wait  upon  thee,  lov'd  one  ! 

Be  this  thy  bridal  morn 
A  sky  without  a  shadow, 

A  rose  without  a  thorn  ! 
Each  selfish  grief  repressing, 

I  lift  ray  heart  above, 
And  ask  for  thee  His  blessing 

Who  hallows  earthly  love. 

Ah  !  how  this  morning  changes 

The  color  of  thy  way  ! 
What  loves  and  joys  estranges 

Of  many  a  youthful  day  ! 
How  much  of  fate  impending, 

With  bliss  or  sorrow  rife, 
In  those  deep  words  is  blending, 

A  wedded — wedded  wife! 

The  playful  mirth,  still  gleaming 

In  girlhood's  happy  eye, 
Unshaded  gladness  beaming, 

While  care  scarce  flitted  by : 


23 

The  fresh  spring  ever  starting 
Bright,  free,  within  thy  heart, 

From  these,  oh  !  thou  art  parting, 
Or  thou  dost  seem  to  part ! 

Another's  weal  or  sorrow 

Henceforth  thy  own  must  be  : 
And  thine,  unswerving,  borrow 

Its  hue  from  sympathy. 
Changeless,  through  joy  or  sadness, 

Must  be  the  faith  of  years  : 
That  pledge,  now  given  in  gladness, 

May  meet  its  test  in  tears  ! 

Yet  fondly  trust  I,  dearest ! 

To  thee  this  sacred  day 
A  rich  reprisal  bearest 

For  all  it  takes  away  : 
Love,  limitless  in  measure, 

Friendship,  of  tenderest  tone, 
The  trusting  heart's  best  treasure, 

A  kindred  heart, — thy  own  ! 

0  !  may  that  love  long  shield  thee 

Amid  a  world  so  cold ! 
And  cares,  if  life  must  yield  thee, 

O'erpay  a  thousand  fold  ! 
Still  in  its  guardian  kindness 

May st  thou  be  gently  blest; 
Nor  e'er  deem  that  hour  blindness, 

When  thou  didst  seek  its  rest. 


24 

Yet  more  than  hers,  thy  mother, 

It  cannot,  will  not  be  : 
Ah  no  ! — when  sister,  brother 

Shall,  smiling,  part  from  thee, 
My  heart,  still  clinging  round  thee, 

Scarce,  scarce  will  thee  resign, 
Tho'  other  ties  have  bound  thee, 

And  thou  no  more  art  mine. 

Yet  joy  go  with  thee,  dearest ! 

On  this  thy  bridal  morn 
May  the  fair  sky  be  clearest, 

The  rose  without  a  thorn  ! 
Each  selfish  grief  repressing, 

I  lift  my  heart  above, 
And  ask  for  thee  His  blessing. 

Who  hallows  earthly  love. 


2.> 


"THE  HEART  KNOWETH  ITS  OWN  BITTERNESS." 

Proverbs  xiv.  10. 

Each  bosom  bears  its  burden.     Deep  within 

There  is  some  skeleton,  some  secret  grief, 
Whose  pallid  shadow  rises  oft  between 

That  heart  and  happiness,  a  hidden  thief: 
Some  canker-worm  each  human  spirit  knows, 
Corroding  at  the  core  its  soft  repose. 

Ah !  meekly  then,  learn  to  sustain  thine  own  ,• 
Nor  deem  thy  heart  must  break,  or  cannot  bear ; 

Look  upward ! — bending  from  a  Father's  throne, 
A  tempering  Power,  a  Comforter  is  there  : 

His  strength  can  lift  from  earth  the  bruised  reed, 

His  hand  the  lamb  all  shorn  can  guard  and  feed. 

He  could  have  laid  thy  path  where  summer  flowers 
Unmarr'd  by  thorns,  should  ever  spring  and  bloom : 

But  this  was  not  to  be  : — thy  thornless  bowers 
Must  wait  thee  in  the  world  beyond  the  tomb  : 

Think  of  that  world ! — for  its  bright  bliss  prepare, 

Nor  shall  one  pang  be  mourn'd,  which  help'd  to  lead  thee  there. 

3 


26 


EARTH'S    OPPRESSIONS. 

I  have  strong  thoughts  :  why  cannot  words  as  strong 
Rush  to  my  soul,  and  find  my  full  heart  way, 

As,  sick'ning  o'er  the  forms  of  human  wrong, 
It  breaks  from  feeble  selfishness  away, 
And  longs  to  speak  what  mighty  words  might  say, 

Piercing  full  deep  the  callous  and  the  cold, 
Lifting  for  its  poor  groaning  fellow-clay, 

Th'  appealing  accents,  eloquently  bold  ! 

O  Thou  !  who  gav'st  the  wish — the  heart — the  tear ! 

But  keep'st  the  arm  of  mighty  power  thine  own ! 

Look  on  the  prayers  that  up  to  Mercy's  throne 
Sighing  arise,  for  those  that  suffer  here  ! 

Answer  the  souls  that  in  their  weakness  cry 

Thy  Kingdom  come — oh  Lord ! — let  Earth's  oppressions  die  ! 


27 


THE    FRUIT    OP    SUFFERING. 


The  night-bird,  sitting  on  the  thorn, 

Sends  music  from  her  lone  retreat; 
The  swan,  along  the  waters  borne, 

In  dying  hour,  'tis  said,  sings  sweet : 
When  deeply  bruis'd,  the  sandal-tree 

A  blessed  fragrance  round  it  throws, 
As  if  in  grief  it  sought  to  be 

A  comforter  for  others'  woes. 

I  cannot,  like  the  nightingale, 

From  the  lone  bough  send  music's  tone  ; 
Nor  breathe  such  sweetness  thro'  the  vale, 

As  breathes  the  swan  that  dies  alone : 
Nor  from  a  bruised  and  wounded  heart, 

Like  bruis'd  and  wounded  sandal-tree, 
That  soothing,  gentle  balm  impart, 

Which  all  around  gives  fragrancy. 

Yet  I,  like  wounded  bird,  have  learn'd 
In  sorrow's  hour  my  strain  to  pour ; 

And  this  poor  heart,  when  bruis'd,  has  burn'd 
With  feelings  faintly  felt  before  : 


28 


For  human  nature's  varied  woe 

Through  suffering  life's  afflicted  day  ; 

For  breasts,  whose  griefs  I  may  not  know, 
For  tears  I  cannot  wipe  away. 

Oh  !  if  but  thus  this  heart  is  made 

Saviour !  more  conversant  with  Thee, 
And  Thy  blest  teaching,  which  has  said 

"  That  done  for  these,  is  done  for  Me  :" 
Still  bruise,  still  wound  it,  though  it  ache 

Beneath  Thy  heavy,  frequent  rod ; 
And  when  at  last  it  gently  break. 

Take  it  to  Thee  !  forgiving  God  ! 


29 


A  SONG  OF  THE  BLOODLESS  WAR. 


Fight — fight — fight ! 

Not  for  the  warrior's  meed, 
But  for  a  blessed  birthright, 

A  pearl,  of  price  indeed  ! 

Up  !  with  strong  voice  to  plead 
Unceasing,  for  the  Soul! 

Lest,  buried  Jow,  it  bleed 
Wounded,  and  never  whole. 

Fight — fight — fight ! 

Not  for  a  laurell'd  brow 
Hereafter,  but  the  might 

Of  Glory  here — and  now  ! 

Of  Glory  here — and  now 
In  the  heart's  ceaseless  strife 

With  all  the  foes  that  bow 
Its  struggling  inner  life. 

Fight — fight — fight ! 

Not  on  the  tented  field  ; 
But  for  the  harvest  bright 

Mind's  priceless  treasures  yield  } 
3* 


30 

Fight,  the  high  strength  to  wield 
Of  Power  from  Thought  that  springs, 

In  its  glad  course  reveal'd 
With  blessing  on  its  wings. 

Fight — fight — fight ! 

Not  to  break  kingdoms  down, 
But,  as  in  God's  own  sight, 

For  conquest — and  a  crown  ! 

A  conquest — and  a  crown 
That  victor-host  shall  win, 

Who  wage,  in  Earth's  cold  frown, 
The  war  with  sense  and  sin. 


Fight — fight — fight ! 

Not  'neath  a  tyrant's  ban, 
But,  with  Truth's  power  and  light, 

To  bless  your  fellow-man. 

On  !  do  whate'er  you  can 
In  Duty's  constant  course! 

Press,  on  bright  Being's  plan 
With  onward,  upward  force. 

Fight — fight — fight ! 

Not  for  an  hour,  a  day  : 
Your  armor,  pure  and  bright, 

Keep  ever  in  array  ; 

Keep  ever  in  array, 
For  myriad  tempters  round 

Would  lure  recruits  astray, 
Off  from  their  battle-ground. 


31 

Fight — fight — fight! 

From  daily  morn  till  even: 
Of  Labor,  in  His  sight, 

For  ever  here  unshriven. 

Till  on  the  hills  of  heaven 
Where  Conquest's  anthems  pour, 

Full  Victory  shall  be  given, 
And  Peace, — for  evermore  ! 


GOLD. 


Yes  !   I  would  have  one  slave.      Thee,  yellow  Gold ! 

To  come  at  call,  and  daily  do  my  will, 
And  I  would  send,  on  mission-walks  untold, 

Kind  gifts  abroad,  to  soften  many  an  ill. 
Oh  !  thou  shouldst  haste  where  captives  wear  the  chain, 

Where  drags  poor  Toil,  unrecompens'd,  its  way, 
Where  Sickness  lifts  an  asking  eye  in  vain 

For  a  kind  watch  through  its  long  lonely  day. 

Where,  on  the  brow  of  Ignorance,  no  ray 
From  blessed  Knowledge  throws  its  cheering  light ; 
And  thou  shouldst  make  the  face  of  Labor  bright 

With  just  requital:  Learning's  gifts  convey, 
Free  the  poor  bondman — break  the  tyrant's  lash : 
Ah !  thou  shouldst  serve  me  well :  nor  wouldst  thou,  Gold  ! 
be  "  trash  /" 


32 


THE    ONE    WAY    TO   HEAVEN. 


Oh  !  watch  thy  soul's  footsteps,  lest  haply  they  stray 
In  their  journey  to  heaven,  from  the  long-trodden  way 
Through  storm  or  thro'  sunshine,  Earth's  gain  or  its  loss, 
That  way  of  all  ransom'd, — the  way  of  the  Cross! 
That,  cheered  by  the  presence,  and  lit  by  the  smile 
Of  Him  who  kept  Daniel  from  terror  and  wile, 
When  the  dainties  of  princes  he  scorn'd  for  his  meat, 
When  the  fierce  crouching  lions  lay  tam'd  at  his  feet : 
That,  track'd  by  the  footsteps  of  saints  as  they  trod 
A  pathway,  oft  flinty,  yet  blessed  of  God  : 
That,  never  the  sport  of  earth's  changes  to  be, 
That  one  and  the  same,  for  thy  fathers  and  thee  ! 


The  march  of  Invention  may  tread  as  it  will 

Upon  Time's  mighty  wheels,  until  Time  standeth  still : 

From  each  circle  of  Science,  each  region  of  Art, 

Conjecture  may  widen,  and  Theory  start, 

Till  the  plodding  old  Past,  step  by  step,  shall  appear 

But  as  shadowy  Night  to  the  eye  and  the  ear. 

Yet  in  that  one  path — in  the  path  of  the  Soul, 
Beware — and  each  vagrant  Invention  control ; 


83 

Lest  in  silence  a  mildew  should  creep  o'er  thy  lot, 
Like  a  serpent  that  coils,  and  thou  knowest  it  not ! 

O  !  tempest-torn  wand'rer,  whose  heart,  faint  and  tost, 
Fears  in  doubt  and  in  gloom  lest  its  compass  be  lost, — 
Keep  thy  feet  where  Earth's  martyrs  have   struggled  and 

striven, 
And  that  path  of  all  ages  shall  take  thee  to  heaven  ! 


A  PRAYER  IN  INDISPOSITION. 


I  am  content  to  die  :  but  oh  !  not  now  !" 

MRS.  NORTON. 


Not  while  the  inner  tide  of  soul  is  pouring 

So  like  an  ocean  o'er  my  swelling  heart; 
Not  while  each  blessed  morn  is  brightly  storing 

Fresh  purposes  of  hope,  from  birth  to  start; 

Not  while  each  passing  moment  can  impart 
Some  sweet  expansion  of  the  spirit's  life, 

Some  rich  resource  within  ;  some  precious  art 
To  keep  the  mind  with  holy  impulse  rife, 
And  strengthen  for  its  foes,  the  soul's  interior  strife. 


34 


Oh  !  the  wild  wish,  too  strong  for  all  repressing, 

To  live  and  labor  in  the  cause  of  love  ! 
To  throw  among  some  sorrowing  hearts,  a  blessing, 

To  point  them  to  the  Comforter  above  ! 

To  bid  if  but  one  slothful  bosom  move 
In  effort  for  the  welfare  of  its  kind ; 

To  call  one  breast  with  higher  aim  to  rove 
Out  from  itself:  a  better  good  to  find 
In  the  high  sphere  of  work  which  heaven  for  man  design'd  ! 

Ah  !  cease  these  ardent  wishes,  longing  heart ! 

These  tumults,  which  its  fervid  beatings  thrill ; 
If  He  would  thou  shouldst  in  His  work  have  part, 

He  can  prolong  Life's  fleeting  measure  still. 

But  if  thy  shorter  date  His  plan  fulfil, 
Then  yield  thy  way  to  His  :  content  to  know 

He  needs  not  thee :  He  sends  by  whom  He  will. 
Hush !  hush !  my  soul !  to  Love  unerring  bow : 
Thou  !  who  canst  do  it !  make  me  willing  now  ! 


:r> 


THE   RAINBOW  AT   NIAGARA. 

Thou,  Rainbow  !  hast  been  lovely,  seen  at  eve 

On  the  calm  concave  of  a  quiet  sky, 
When,  rolling  off  afar,  the  shower-clouds  leave 

One  clear  expanse,  and  tints  of  radiance  lie 
Gather'd  in  brightly  blended  harmony 

Upon  the  sunset  heaven's  still  deepening  blue, 
And  resting  on  the  far  earth's  boundary. 

But  when  I  saw  thee  in  that  scene  so  new, 
Mighty  Niagara  ! — thy  daily  home, 

Rearing  thy  arch  above  its  waters  wild, 
And  throwing  gloriously  on  that  white  foam 

Those  vermeil  tints — magnificent  yet  mild  ; — 

I  felt  the  rapture  of  an  ardent  child 
When  his  first  rainbow  gleanTd  upon  his  eye, 

And  a  deep  speechless  sense  of  joy  beguiled 
Him  from  earth's  thoughts  to  dreams  of  ecstasy. 

Glow  on — resplendent  vision  ! — and  in  hours 

When  Fancy  and  when  Memory's  fairy  fingers 
Weave  round  the  heart  their  coronal  of  flowers, 

Come — while  thy  shadow  o'er  my  spirit  lingers, 
Come  !  as  again  before  me,  on  the  day 

When,  by  that  ceaseless  torrent's  roaring  flood, 
I  stood, — and  saw,  upon  the  snowy  spray, 

Lifting  thine  angel-form,  thee,  peaceful  bow  of  God  ! 


36 


THE  HEART'S  REVIVING  FROM  AFFLICTION. 

Thou  hast  been,  my  heart !  a  mourner ! 

Thou  hast  in  the  depth  of  woe 
Felt  thyself  a  quiet  scorner 

Of  all  joy  that  Earth  can  show. 

What  arous'd  thee  from  thy  sorrow  1 

What  awoke  within,  at  last, 
A  reviving,  glorious  morrow 

Rising  from  the  awful  Past  1 

That  blest  purpose,  strong  and  cheering, 
Still  for  God,  for  good,  to  live  ; 

Still  to  feel  Life's  deep  endearing, 
While  in  faith  and  hope  I  give 

Not  of  Wealth  :  the  wise  All-seeing 
Meant  not  me  its  gifts  to  find  : 

But  of  soul — of  will — of  being, 
To  the  cause  of  human-kind. 

Still  of  gen'rous  thought  and  feeling 

For  the  sons  of  want  and  wo, 
Fervently,  a  warm  appealing 

On  surrounding  minds  to  throw. 


37 

From  my  bosom's  ardent  swelling 
Still  the  trembling  lyre  to  wake; 

Blest,  if  in  one  heart  impelling 
Works  of  love,  for  Jesus'  sake. 


PSALM  IV.  4. 

[written  at  sixteen.] 

When  round  thy  pathway  joy's  fair  waters  flow, 
And  in  the  cheerful  sunbeam  brightly  glow, 
Ah  !  oft  retire  from  pleasure's  sparkling  rill, 
Turn  to  the  fount  within,  and  there  be  still! 

When  friendship's  soothing  words  sweet  charms  impart, 
When  partial  praise  twines  softly  round  the  heart, 
O  !  gently  check  that  heart's  tumultuous  thrill, 
Stand  thou  in  awe — turn  inward — and  be  still ! 

When  some  small  cause  of  mental  discord  reigns, 
When  wounded  self,  or  injur'd  pride  complains, 
Repress  each  troubled  thought  the  soul  could  will, 
And  in  thy  bosom's  solitude — be  still! 

When  sorrow  all  the  scene  has  called  her  own, 
And  oft  thou  feel'st  a  pilgrim,  sad  and  lone, 
Then  calmly  yield  to  Heaven  each  outward  ill, 
Turn  to  thy  inward  home — and  there — be  still ! 
4 


38 

There  shall  thou  converse  find  forever  sweet, 
And  feel  from  every  woe,  a  safe  retreat : 
There  shall  thy  soul  a  faithful  guardian  view, 
Whose  counsel,  ever  nigh,  is  ever  true. 
O  !  may  that  counsel  guide  thee  in  the  road 
Which  leads  the  soul,  progressive,  to  its  God! 


ALL  IS  VANITY.— Eccles.  m.  19. 

It  is  not  hard  to  feel  how  vain  the  strife 

Of  giddy  minds  in  wild  ambition's  way  ; 
The  pomp  of  equipage,  the  pride  of  life, 

The  toilsome  effort  for  a  transient  day 

To  wear  a  laurel  wreath  :  the  bright  array 
And  pageantry  of  wealth's  slow-moving  train  : 

Easy  to  bend,  from  Thought's  serene  survey, 
On  things  like  these  the  eye  of  mild  disdain, 
And  know  that  they  are  false,  and  feel  that  they  are  vain. 

But  there  are  things  on  which  the  heart  demurs, 

Less  willing  that  the  holy  words  be  true  : 
Things  she  has  lov'd  so  long,  so  priz'd  as  hers, 

Here  must  the  precept  speak  monition  too? 

The  rich,  full  banquet  of  the  mental  view 
O'er  Taste's  bright  land,  thro'  Learning's  gardens  fair, 

And,  more  than  all,  affection,  warm  and  true, 
That  precious  world  of  "  bliss  beyond  compare," 
Found  in  a  kindred  heart, — shall  these  the  sentence  share  1 


39 


Yes  ! — if  they  whelm  thy  soul  in  feeling's  thrill, 
With  glow  so  deep  of  lov'd,  intense  delight, 

That  heaven-ward  thoughts  less  frequent  come,  to  fill 
That  soul,  and  nerve  with  strength  its  upward  flight 
If  thy  fond  heart  to  slumber  they  invite 

'Mid  Earth's  poor  fountains  for  her  best  supply, 
Ah  !  tho'  they  lovely  seem,  and  pure,  and  bright 

Meet  as  with  Heaven's  own  amaranths  to  vie, — 
Pause  ! — for  to  thee — to  thee, — they  too  are  vanity  ! 


STANZAS. 

Oh  !  tell  me  what  to  write ! 

For  strong,  full  thoughts  are  swelling 
Up  in  their  ardent  might, 

To  fervent  speech  impelling: 
Thoughts,  that  unutter'd  lie 

By  their  own  weight  consuming, 

Yet  long,  on  wing  presuming, 
Through  distant  minds  to  fly. 

'Tis  not  the  idle  power 

Or  will,  that  can  content  me; 

A  richer,  nobler  dower 

I  would  high  Heaven  had  sent  me  ; 


40 

To  join  my  voice  with  theirs 
For  God  and  man  imploring, 
Who  in  His  work  are  pouring 

Their  earnest  words  and  prayers! 

Oh  !  tell  me  what  to  write  ! 

How  I  may  best  be  serving 
Each  cause  of  Good  and  Right, 

From  Truth — and  God — unswerving! 
How  best  the  grain  of  gold 

He  gave, — I  may  be  sowing, 

To  yield  true  riches  growing, 
Up  to  a  hundred  fold  ! 


THE  SISTERS'  FAREWELL  TO  S-. 


WRITTEN  FORTHREE  FRIENDS  IN  THE  DECLINE  OF  LITE,  ON  THEIR  DEPARTURE 
FROM  A  RESIDENCE  INHABITED  FROM  EARLY  CHILDHOOD.* 


Yes — beloved  home — we  leave  thee  ! 

All.  the  scenes  we  love  so  well : 
Garden, — wood- walks, — happy  dwelling, 

Can  we — can  we  say  Farewell  1 
Can  we  leave  thee 

In  another  home  to  dwell  1 


*  The  first  stanza  has  been  adopted,  with  a  slight  variation,  from  I  lie  fn 
stanza  of  "The  Missionaries'  Farewell." 


11 


Round  thy  precincts,  thickly  thronging, 
Childhood's  sweetest  mem'ries  come  : 

Joys — to  riper  years  belonging, 

Griefs, — that  bless'd  amid  their  gloom  : 

Holy  treasures ! 
Link'd  with  distance,  and  the  tomb  ! 

Ah  !  and  tell  us, — to  what  other 

Will  it  be  as  deeply  dear? 
Who,  a  long-lov'd  father — mother, — 

Can,  like  us,  remember  here  1 
Sister — brother, — 

Still,  in  spirit-converse,  near. 

Who,  like  us,  will  see,  imprinted 
On  these  scenes,  the  precious  Past  ? 

Round  each  bower  by  Autumn  tinted, 
More  than  sun  or  shade  can  cast 

From  affections, 
Strong  while  life's  warm  throb  shall  last. 

Who  like  us,  while  daily  moving 
Thro'  each  dear  familiar  place, 

Gone  before,  yet  lov'd  and  loving, 
Will  a  mother's  footstep  trace  ? 

Hear  her  accents, — 
Feel  again,  her  fond  embrace  1 

Or  a  sainted  father's  outline 

Filling  up  yon  ancient  chair, 
When  the  deep'ning  twilight  shadow 

Brings  the  hour  for  evening  prayer, 
And  his  image 

Seems  again  all  perfect  there? 


42 

Can  we  by  a  rose-bush  linger, 

But  its  little  history's  dear! 
Pass  a  tree,  which  Memory's  finger 

Hath  not  mark'd  for  many  a  year  1 
Tread  a  foot-path — 

Friendship  has  not  hovered  near. 

Home  belov'd  !  and  can  we  leave  thee  1 
Where  the  friends  of  spirit-land 

Gath'ring  round,  still  seem  to  meet  us 
In  a  precious  household  band  1 

What  from  round  thee 
Can  unclasp  our  heart  or  hand  3 

Duty's  dictate  : — she  is  calling  : 
Therefore,  tho'  from  each  fond  heart 

Sighs  are  bursting,  tears  are  falling, — 
Unrebellious,  we  depart  : 

Yes !  Almighty ! 
Wisdom,  ev'n  in  clouds,  Thou  art. 

Change  and  distance! — can  ye  sever 
From  the  soul  its  holiest  powers  1 

Glory  to  Thy  goodness  !     Never! 
Love  and  Memory  still  are  ours : 

And  we  bless  Thee 
For  these  bright  immortal  flowers. 

God,  who  gave,  is  from  us  taking 
More,  than  aught  but  He  can  tell : 

Yet  shall  say  our  hearts,  while  aching, 
11  Father  !  all  thou  dost  is  well  !" 

Thus  we  leave  thee, 
Cherish'd  home!    Farewell!     Farewell! 


43 


MY  OWN  FAREWELL  TO  S . 

WRITTEN     IN    INDISPOSITION. 

And  I  too  leave  thee,  S ! — I  have  lov'd 

Thy  peaceful  shades;  how  well,  I  need  not  say  ; 
For  here  my  light  free  steps  in  childhood  rov'd, 

When,  tho'  not  thoughtless,  this  young  heart  was  gay. 
When  home  I  hasten'd  to  a  mother's  side 

To  tell  my  little  tale  of  walks  and  flowers, 
Sharing  with  her,  my  bosom's  joy  and  pride, 

Each  passing  interest  of  those  happy  hours. 
Here  have  I  sought,  when  Duty's  pressing  weight 

In  riper  years,  bow'd  down  this  drooping  frame, 
Fresh  blessed  breezes,  which,  with  life  elate, 

Brac'd  the  weak  nerve,  and  fann'd  health's  trembling  flame. 
Here,  when  Affliction  wore  my  soul  away, 

Like  dove  all  faint  and  wounded,  have  I  come  ; 
And  turn'd  from  things  and  thoughts  of  cumb'ring  clay, 

To  my  soul's  strength,  its  refuge,  and  its  home. 
Now  too,  beneath  her  last  and  heaviest  blow, 

Here  has  my  crush'd  heart  fled,  been  sooth'd  and  still : 
Look'd  up  on  high  through  darkest  clouds  of  woe, 

And  pray'd  to  learn  that  suffering  is  not  ill. 


44 


Nor  pray'd  in  vain  : — my  days,  not  long  behind 

Hers  whom  my  bosom  mourns,  will  sure  be  few  : 
0  !  guide  thy  feeble  one,  Creator  kind  ! 

Fit  her  to  meet  Thy  Will ;  compos'd  to  view 
Life's  waning  strength — each  hope  that  health  can  give, — 

Slowly,  but  surely,  fade  in  clouds  away  : 
And  in  Thy  Word  of  Promise  to  believe 

Death's  silent  night  the  morn  of  brightest  day. 
Then,  tho'  to  these  lov'd  shades  I  come  no  more, 

Nor  hope  to  tread  these  pleasant  walks  again 
At  morning's  blush,  or  evening's  gentle  hour, — 

Yet  thoughts  of  comfort  bless  the  parting  pain. 
Thoughts  of  that  home,  whose  bowers  are  always  bright, — 

Thoughts  of  that  home,  I  cannot  love  too  well : 
Thoughts  of  that  home,  where  neither  change  nor  blight 

Can  fall :  where  I  may  ever — ever  dwell. 

Adieu! and  if  my  last  adieu  to  be, 

Oh  !  while  this  weak  and  wounded  heart  is  aching, 
Tie  after  tie  which  binds  me  earthward  breaking, 
Rock  of  my  strength  !  may  I  abide  in  Thee  ! 

And,  tho'  each  link  to  earth  God's  wisdom  sever, 
Beneath  that  shadow  rest,  with  those  I  love, — forever  ! 


45 


THE  INVALID  LABORER  IN  THE  WORLD'S  HARVEST-FIELD. 

Lab'rer  in  the  world's  broad  field 

Where  the  harvest-sheaves  are  white ! 
Lo  !  we  bless  the  hands  that  wield 

Thus,  like  thine,  the  sickle's  might. 
Stranger  !  'tis  a  toil  benign  : 

Yet,  'mid  noon's  o'erpowering  glow, 
Wearied  droops  this  frame  of  mine, 

Languidly  its  pulses  flow. 

Lab'rer  in  the  field  of  God  ! 

Haste  thee  from  the  sun's  broad  beam  : 
Linger  by  the  grassy  sod, — 

Wander  near  the  shaded  stream. 
Stranger  !  God's  work  cannot  wait  : 

He  hath  much  for  all  to  do, 
Where  the  harvest  is  so  great, 

And  the  lab'rers  are  so  few. 


Lab'rer  !  if  the  work  is  great, 
And  its  friends  have  much  to  do, 

Sure  we  need  Life's  lengthened  date 
For  that  earnest,  faithful  few. 


46 


Stranger  !  Life  is  not  the  hour 
Brief  or  long,  we  pass  on  earth  : 

'Tis  the  souVs  glow,  truth,  and  power 
Marks  its  date,  and  makes  its  worth. 

Lab'rer!   right! — and  therefore  thou 

In  thy  glorious  toil  beware, 
Lest  too  soon  its  ardor  bow 

One  our  reapers  cannot  spare. 
Strength's  o'er-fervent  tension  stay, 

That  it  yet  may  wax  the  stronger : 
Pause  !  and  gather  by  the  way 

Rest, — that  thou  rnayst  labor  longer 


A   RECOLLECTION, 


ADDRESSED    TO    ANY    WHO     ATTENDED     IPSWICH    FEMALE     SEMINARY    IN 
THE    WINTER    OF    1S34-35. 


"  Where  are  they  1     And  Echo  answered — Where  ?" 


We  were  a  happy  band 
As  often  met  below, 

When  walking  hand  in  hand, 
Ten  years  ago. 


47 


Oh  !  I  recall  the  hours 

Of  many  a  former  day, 
O'er  which  sweet  Mem'ry's  flowers 

Are  thrown,  for  aye  ! 

When  round  the  early  meal, 

Kindly  remember'd  yet, 
Sisters,  in  woe  or  weal, 

Each  morn — we  met. 


When  Daylight,  growing  dim, 
Sent  home  the  weary  bird, 

And,  in  our  evening  hymn 
Low  music  stirr'd. 


When  she  was  there,  whose  mind, 
With  thought's  serene  control 

And  feelings  ever  kind, 
Illum'd  the  whole. 


Sisters  !   where  are  we  now  1 
Oh  !  scattered — scattered  far  ! 

Dissever'd  wide  below 
Our  journeyings  are. 

Some — fairest  all  among, 

To  that  bright  world  are  fled, 

Whose  ransom'd — happy  throng 
We  call — the  dead. 


48 

Some,  through  a  foreign  shore 

On  holy  errand  roam, 
Gladd'ning  with  smiles  no  more 

Their  childhood's  home. 


To  me,  of  all  the  train 

That  once  around  were  dear, — 
To  brighten  Mem'ry's  chain 

Not  one  is  near. 


Perchance,  on  this  shall  fall 
A  glance  from  some  mild  eye, 

Which  may  a  friend  recall, 
Known,  days  gone  by  : 


Then,  Sister,  would  I  ask 

Where-e'er  thy  sojourn  be 
Amid  life's  pilgrim  task, — 

One  prayer — for  me  ! 


February,  1845. 


49 


THE     WIDOW'S     MITE -Mark  xii.  41-44. 

In  the  courts  of  the  temple,  to  numbers  unknown, 
'Mid  circling  beholders,  the  Saviour  sat  down  : 
With  eye  all  serene  on  the  multitude  bent, 
He  mark'd  where  its  throng  to  the  treasury  went. 

The  rich  with  their  gold  and  their  silver  came  up, 
And  cast  in  their  tributes  to  charity's  cup  : 
With  look  self-complacent  in  gifts  of  much  worth, 
They  sought  for  the  praise  of  their  brethren  of  earth. 

Then  pass'd  by  a  lone  one,  neglected  and  poor, 
Mean,  worn  her  apparel,  as  scanty  her  store  : 
All  timid  and  trembling,  she  dropp'd  in  her  mite, 
And  blush'd  at  the  offering,  and  hasten'd  from  sight. 

But  He  who  sat  by,  mark'd  that  boon,  as  'twas  giv'n, 
And  smil'd  on  its  donor,  approval  from  Heaven  ; 
Then  what  were  to  her  the  high  looks  of  the  proud, 
Or  her  loneliness  there  in  that  cold,  heedless  crowd  ? 

"  See  !   here  is  the  giver  whose  offering  is  blest ! 
More  precious  by  far,  than  the  gold  of  the  rest! 
For  they  from  their  careless  abundance  cast  in, 
Their  breasts  coldly  heaving  with  pride  and  with  sin  : 
5 


50 

"  But  she  this  small  pittance,  her  all,  hath  bestow'd, 
With  heart  full  of  love,  as  a  tribute  to  God  ! 
He  blesses  the  effort, — He  notes  it  on  high, 
Her  witness  and  record  are  both  in  the  sky." 

Oh  !  like  unto  hers,  be  our  dole  freely  given 
With  motive  unblemish'd  in  offering  to  Heaven  : 
And  still  from  our  little, — our  slowly-earn'd  store, 
Let  us  lay  by  our  mite  for  His  Church  and  His  Pour . 


"COMMUNION    WITH    THE    UNSEEN." 

INSCRIBED    TO    C.  M.  M. 

I  could  not  write  before.  But  now  alone 
With  God  in  His  own  quietness, — afar 
From  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  man,  which  jar 

Against  the  strings  of  sorrow, — silent  thrown 
Upon  Grief's  deep  resources,  solemn  steals 

The  glorious  fellowship  of  unseen  things 
"Over  my  broken  spirit:  gently  heals 

The  bleeding  wounds  of  anguish,  and  gives  wings 
To  this  weak,  aching  heart,  to  soar,  and  bless 

That  Power,  whose  consolations  yet  are  near : 

That  Power,  which  thro'  its  chastening,  though  severe, 
Has  shown  perhaps  its  deepest  tenderness. 


51 

Here,  while  His  comforts  speak  in  gentleness, 
I  think  not  of  the  grave, — I  think  of  heaven, 
And  of  those  lov'd  ones,  to  whose  feet  'tis  given 

Ere  mine,  the  pavement  of  His  courts  to  press 
In  that  bright  world.     O  !  blessed  !  in  this  hour 

When,  murm'rings  hush'd,  the  thoughts  of  gloom  retire 

Behind  the  thoughts  of  glory, — when  aspire 
To  joy  in  your  pure  joy,  each  feeling,  power, 

The  full  heart  owns,  ah  !  could  ye  to  us  speak, 

Would  ye  not  say, — Dear  suffering  ones,  and  weak  ! 
Ling'rers  on  earth  !  we  love — we  love  you  yet  ! 
Spirits  made  perfect  do  not  here  forget ! 

Such  tears  as  wet  your  path,  once  fell  on  ours  ; 
And  yet  your  tears  no  more  may  make  us  sad  : 

Soon — soon  the  last  shall  fall  !  swift  fly  your  hours; 
Child!   brother!  sister!  friend!  rejoice!  be  glad, 

For  ye  shall  come  and  join  us  :    oh  !   how  sweet 
When  all  these  thorn-strewed  paths  of  life  are  trod, 

Still  loving — still  belov'd, — made  pure, — to  meet 
In  the  blest  presence  of  our  pardoning  God  ! 

All  dear  to  all!     Yet  oh!  how  deeply  dear, 
Hearts,  that  together  fix'd  on  Truth  and  Love, 

Were  knit  in  sorrows  and  in  struggles  here, 
On  their  souls'  journey  to  the  world  above  ! 

Mother  and  child  !  who,  parted  long  below, 
With  Time's  cold  tide  in  faith  and  hope  have  striven, 

Still  suff'ring  on,  in  patient  trust  to  know 
The  distant  dear  one  yours  at  last,  in  heaven  ! 

Friends  !  who  the  shade  and  sunshine  of  your  day 
Once  sweetly  shar'd,  till  call'd  by  death  to  sever  ; 

Yes!  ye  shall  meet  again!     Tears  wip'd  away, 
No  parting  more — no  anguish  now, — forever. 


52 

Lord  !  is  it  thus  1 — May  grief's  fond  throb  be  hush'd 

In  the  blest  faith  our  lov'd  and  lost  to  see  1 
Thou  hast  not  said  it,  save  through  that  deep  trust 

Of  these  our  souls,  which  seems  to  speak  from  Thee ! 
rflone,  Thy  love  is  life ;  Thy  presence  bliss  : 

Yet  ah  !  forgive  the  hearts  which  Thou  hast  made, 
Those  trembling,  longing  hearts, — if  thoughts  like  this 

Throw  round  the  hopes  of  heav'n  a  lovelier  shade 
In  this  our  day  of  weakness ! Unforbid 

By  Thee,  O  God  !  we  clasp  their  treasure  still ; 
And  leave  with  Thee  the  things  which  Thou  hast  hid, 

Secure,  that  perfect,  full  delight  shall  fill 
Each  bosom  there.     Blest  thoughts  !    still  closer  cling 

Round  this  poor  heart!     By  Him  who  knows  us  given, 
While  joy  too  deep  for  speech,  on  earth  ye  bring, 

Ye  cannot  disappoint — or  cause  one  pang,  in  heaven. 


A  EECOLLECTION  OF  PRESIDENT  NOTT  OF  SCHENECTADY, 

On  the  evening  of  May  22, 1838,  in  Philadelphia. 


INSCRIBED   TO   M.  A.  T. 


The  vivid  lightning's  lurid  glare 
Gleam'd,  trembling,  through  the  close  still  air 
Pale  sheets  of  flame  across  the  sky 
Quiver'd,  in  fearful  brilliancy; 


53 

While  onward,  'mid  their  fitful  light, 
Came  the  deep  thunder  in  its  might. 
Then  swept  the  winds  :  the  rain  fell  fast ; 
High  rose  the  loud  and  swelling  blast: 
Till,  on  the  almost  midnight  hour, 
Burst  the  wild  tempest's  awful  power. 

We  two  were  far,  (my  friend  and  I,) 

From  quiet  home's  security  : 

Yet  tempest's  voice,  and  glancing  flame 

Scarce  to  our  hearts  with  terror  came  : 

Tho'  rising  o'er  bright  torches'  gleam, 

The  brighter  cloud-flash  paled  their  beam, 

Tho'  mingling  with  each  thrilling  word, 

The  thunder's  solemn  roll  was  heard  ; 

With  thoughts  that  made  earth's  scenes  but  dim, 

We  listen'd,  reverently, — to  him. 

We  heard  but  his  deep  eloquence, 

Lifting  our  souls  from  earth  and  sense ; 

Dilating,  as  it  fill'd  the  hour 

With  heart,  with  mind's  o'er-mast'ring  power: 

Gath'ring  each  fancy's  vagrant  flight 

Entranc'd,  enchain'd,  in  mute  delight  : 

Pouring  within  the  raptur'd  ear 

As  from  some  bright  unearthly  sphere, 

Its  own  deep  life  in  things  above, 

For  human-kind  its  own  wide  love. 


'Tis  past:   but  when  my  heart  has  turn'd 
To  hours  in  which  its  pulses  burn'd 

5* 


54 

Willi  silent,  glowing  fervor  all, — 

Then  does  it  oft  the  night  recall 

When  what  a  magic  power,  I  felt, 

That  heart  to  charm,  to  move,  to  melt, 

Might  to  a  human  voice  be  given 

Which  spoke  for  God,  and  taught  of  heaven  : 

Which  "  dropp'd  the  golden  chain  from  high, 

"  And  drew  its  audience  to  the  sky." 


THE    LADY'S    DAY-DREAM. 

"  Enough  is  less  than  thy  thought,  O  pampered  creature  of  society  ;  and  he 
that  hath  more  than  enough,  is  a  thief  of  the  rights  of  his  brother." 

PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

- 

In  the  twilight  gloom  of  a  lonely  room 

Arose  the  Lady's  Dream ; 
Through  whose  bright  reveries  she  musing  sees 

A  dwelling  of  beauty  beam  : 
And  as  Fancy  twines,  in  fairy  lines, 

The  sketchings  of  her  will, 
Its  pictured  plan  thus  onward  ran, 

Playfully  widening  still. 

In  a  lovely  scene  should  that  home,  I  ween, 

Its  finish'd  fabric  rear ; 
There  from  Life's  stern  sway  would  I  steal  away, 

Nor  its  turmoil  nor  rudeness  near  : 


55 


And  beauteously  plann'd  by  artistic  hand 

Without,  within,  should  be  : 
Where  Taste  should  bring,  and  Invention  fling 

Their  graceful  gifts  for  me. 

To  that  fair  home  should  the  stranger  come 

As  to  some  Arcadian  scene, 
Where  Art's  nice  touch,  not  felt  too  much, 

Yet  hath  Nature's  brightener  been  : 
In  the  flowery  dell,  the  lawn's  smooth  swell 

Down  to  the  calm  blue  lake, 
The  ramble  rude  through  the  deep  dark  wood, 

The  dingle  and  the  brake  : 

The  quiet  wTay  whose  little  walks  stray 

'Mid  moss  and  bluebells  wending; 
The  shelter'd  path  from  the  north  wind's  wrath 

O'er  the  trellissed  slope  descending; 
The  exotic  rare,  that  loves  to  bear 

Commingling  odors  and  bloom, 
W'here  its  glowing  flowers,  in  their  sunny  bowers 

Shed  smiles  over  winter's  gloom. 

From  my  wall  should  the  pale  soft  rose-tint  fall 

Around  in  a  gentle  glow, 
Like  sunset  gush,  when  its  crimson  flush 

Steals  o'er  the  world  below. 
On  marble, — white  as  the  snow-flake  light, 

Should  blossoming  shrubs  unclose  ; 
And  the  shaded  beam's  mellow  radiance  gleam 

On  evening's  grey  repose. 


56 


The  painter's  art  I  would  call  apart 

In  lines  and  hues  of  brightness; 
And  sculpture's  various  form,  to  charm 

By  its  chastely-chisell'd  lightness; 
Through  the  oriel  pane's  softly  chequer'd  stain 

Noon's  chasten'd  rays  should  shine ; 
And  draperies  fall,  where  columns  tall 

Fair  wreathing  flowers  entwine. 

The  lessons  taught  by  the  great  in  thought 

In  my  books  should  round  me  cluster ; 
And  each  costly  gem  from  Mind's  diadem, 

On  my  studio  cast  its  lustre. 
Thus  the  Lady's  lot  in  a  fairy  spot 

Seem'd  shadow'd  in  fancy's  glass, 
Till  from  long  reverie  she  woke  to  see 

Her  pleasant  vision  pass. 

Then  a  voice  came  whisp'ring — "  Is  this  thy  will  ? 

Ah  !    thus  if  thy  day-dreams  rove, 
Be  sure  'twas  in  mercy  High  Wisdom  still 

Denied  them  from  above! 
Would st  thou,  in  a  world  where  woes  are  rife, 

Where  Want  sits  famish'd  and  pale, 
Where  a  single  coin  oft  might  brighten  a  life, 

Changing  sorrow's  to  rapture's  tale  ; 

Wouldst  thou  thro'  that  world  walk  pamper'd  and  nurst 

In  enchanted  wantonness, 
Till  thy  heart — thy  soul — grew  callous  and  curst 

With  Life's  refined  excess  ? 


57 


Would st  thou  bask  in  thy  sunny  and  flow'ry  meads 
While  Earth's  myriad  sufferings  endure, 

And  each  vain  elegance  mutely  pleads 
The  claim  of  God's  suppliant  poor'? 

O  !  bless  Him  then,  that  He  little  gave  ; 

Or  gave  not  to  thy  hand 
All  thy  vain  fantasies  might  crave, 

Hadst  thou  thy  portion  plann'd  : 
O  !  bless  Him  then,  that  He  call'd  thee  not 

To  a  trial  few  hearts  can  bear, 
The  fulness  of  Luxury's  prosp'rous  lot, — 

Lest  thine  had  been  harden'd  there  ! 


THE   CRY  OF   THE  DUMB   CREATION. 

"Let  us,  when  we  come  before  the  judgment-seat  of  the  Universal  Father, 
be  pure  from  all  abuse  of  any  creature  He  has  made." 

FREDERIKA    BREMER. 

Should  not  the  true  heart  lift  its  pleading 

For  whom  a  voice  is  seldom  heard  ] 
Whose  tribulations  none  are  heeding, 

Whose  wrongs  few  pitying  thoughts  have  stirr'd  1 
Of  Earth  the  fifth  day's  lawful  rangers 

Through  sky  and  sea,  o'er  land  and  flood  ; 
Yet,  by  the  sixth's  remorseless  strangers 

Bow'd  down  to  groans — and  woes — and  blood. 


58 


Those,  who  can  feel  or  pain  or  pleasure 

In  their  brief  being's  mould  of  clay  ; 
To  whom  its  short  and  quivering  measure 

Can  fleet  in  weal  or  woe,  away. 
And  who  can  know  no  cheering  morrow 

Rising  from  heaven's  bright  world  of  bliss, 
In  recompense  for  all  the  sorrow 

And  hard  oppression,  felt  in  this. 

Oh  !  patient  ones,  for  us  who  labor ! 

Oh  !  gentle  ones,  for  us  who  feed  ! 
And  crop  the  herb,  and  roam  the  meadow, 

Oft  for  our  pamper'd  lives,  to  bleed  ! 
How  great  at  least  the  debt  of  kindness 

We  owe,  life's  little  day,  to  you, 
Who,  in  your  all-unconscious  blindness, 

Meekly,  our  selfish  bidding,  do  ! 

That  debt,  ye  human!  are  ye  paying 

To  those  around — above — beneath, 
Whose  myriad  voices  still  are  saying 

"  Be  kind  !  be  kind  !   while  yet  we  breathe  ?" 
Pass  through  yon  city's  streets  a  ranger, 

Pass  o'er  one  rustic  lord's  domain  : 
And  answers  many  a  poor  brute  stranger 

In  deep  response  of  ill  and  pain. 

Yes — ye  may  toil !  and  few  are  caring ; 

May  writhe  in  pain, — and  who  takes  heed, 
So  that  our  burdens  ye  are  bearing, 

So  that  your  lives  our  tables  feed  1 


59 


Careless,  that  each  frail  form  of  being 
Can,  in  life's  humblest  aspect,  feel  ; 

That  One  above,  The  Great  All-Seeing, 
Marks,  its  least  right  when  tyrants  steal. 

Too  few  the  silent  misery  ponder 

For  which  the  sufferer  hath  no  tongue ; 
Nor  would  my  pen  unjustly  wander : 

Say,  do  I  those  a  grievous  wrong 
O'er  human  griefs  in  tears  who  languish, 

Yet  in  the  sportsman's  walks  are  found  1 
Mourn  o'er  the  captive  negro's  anguish, 

But  keep  a  warbling  wing'd  one, — bound  ? 

Ah  !  in  heaven's  glorious  world  of  blessing, 

Where  not  like  earth's  the  scene  shall  be, 
No  strong  the  strengthless  ones  oppressing, 

No  bondman  bowing  to  the  free; 
Would  I  might  think  a  home  is  waiting 

The  poor  and  persecuted  dumb  ! 
That  they  might  share  the  New-Creating, 

In  God's  blest  kingdom  yet  to  come  ! 

But  He  knows  best  ! — and  He  hath  spoken 

No  word  of  second  birth  for  these  : 
Then,  ye,  whose  hearts,  oft  bruis'd  and  broken, 

Have  learn'd  all  kindly  sympathies  ; 
Feel — think — and  speak  for  poor  brute  being 

In  this  its  short  and  evil  stage  ; 
And  all  the  countless  inj'ries  seeing 

Of  its  unshelter'd  pilgrimage  ; 


60 


When  for  Life's  children  of  affliction 

You  lift  to  Heav'n  the  fervent  prayer, 
Blush  not  to  blend,  in  such  petition, 

These  mute  ones  of  His  love  and  care : 
Pray  that  God's  Spirit,  gently  moving 

On  man's  cold  heart,  would  make  it  kind  ; 
And  soften  to  the  power  of  loving 

Human  and  brute, — each  callous  mind  ! 


INTELLECTUAL   PLEASURES. 


"  Bright  are  thy  present  joys  :  and  brighter  far 
The  hope  that  draws  thee  like  a  heavenly  star." 

PEHCIVAL. 

The  fountain  is  exhaustless.     From  my  heart 

The  wells  of  thought  their  jets  are  upward  throwing, 
And  still,  as  light's  prismatic  varyings  part, 
Daily  their  rainbow-tinted  hues  are  glowing, 
Round  this  dull  world,  a  robe  of  beauty  throwing. 
In  some  fresh  drapery  of  feeling's  dress, 
Some  beau-ideal  new,  of  loveliness, 
The  ever-changing  forms  from  heaven  and  earth, 
Of  active,  buoyant  Mind  are  bursting  into  birth. 


HI 

I  walk, — their  many-flitting  forms  are  near : 
I  take  ray  needle, — they  are  still  around  me  : 

I  wake  at  night, — but  they  are  living  here, 

Ev'n  'mid  the  spells  with  which  dull  sleep  hath  wound  me. 
Nor  Day's  bright  sun,  nor  Darkness  deep  hath  bound  me 

So  to  "  the  stern  realities  of  life," 

But  that  each  moment  is,  exhaustless,  rife 

With  the  rich  wealth  of  affluence  within, 

Those  countless — priceless  joys  that  ever  still  begin. 

What  then,  if  earth's  cut  diamonds  are  not  mine, 
While  that  within  scarce  giveth  these  a  greeting  ? 

What,  if  this  active  spirit's  fragile  shrine 

Whisper  in  droopings  oft — "  thy  days  are  fleeting!" 

O  !  rich  in  present  blessings,  and  my  future 

Trusting  upon  that  Cross,  once,  Saviour!  Thine, — 

What  shall  my  soul  to  doubting  sadness  tutor  1 
All — all  is  good  !  or  Life,  or  Death,  must  shine  : 
Death  ? — No !  with  Thee,  my  God  !  Death  is  but  Life  Divine  ! 


TO    A    FRIEND    IN     AFFLICTION. 


When  o'er  the  brow  of  ti  v'd 

The  changing  cloud  of  grief  we  trace  j 

And  vainly  wish  our  love  wore  prov'd. 
hi  sorrow's  pan  to  boar  their  place  : 

The  saddened  bosom  sinks,  to  tool 
That  it  must  wish — in  silence  too  : 

Without  one  gift  to  aid.  or  heal. 
The  good  it  would,  it  cannot  do. 

Bui  when,  these  throbbing-  tumults  calm 

In  intercession's   solemn  hour. 
It  seeks  that  Omnipresent  balm. 

Almighty  Love — Almighty  Power: 

To  ••  soothe  the  ills  /.'  cannot  move," 

IV  guide  the  heart  i:  cannot  aid. 
And  temper  with  a  Father's  Love, 

Each  wound  He  hath  in  wisdom  made: 

It  feels  th.  assign'd. 

One  pain  is  sent,  one  grief  is  giv'n. 

Which  bids  the  heart,  by  these  retin'd. 

Bloom  fresh,  like  Aaron's  rod. — for  heaven. 


WHAT    IS    ALL    .AMJ    WHAT    IB    HOTHINfl 

What  if  creatures  'oh  humble  ae  X,  V  and  Z, 
Bring  out  the  bright  truth  i  aojovo 

What  if  gilded   Morocco.  OT  leather  and  brown 

Environ  the  page  that  pours  affluence  down? — 

'TJS  nought,  whether  damask  or  hr-rnespun  enshrine 

7Vte  *7/>7/  which  encloses  a  spirit  divine  : 

Til  nought,  whether  forma  move  in  JinM-y  or  lace, 

Shade  with  feather*  and  blonde,  or  tarpaulin*  the  face  : 

Or  fancy  a  vesture  of  drab  or  of  gn 

Or  in  Wealth's  lordly  ball*,  or  \\ rant'a  BOttagil 

Or  droop  over  Blaefc4tone   wilh  Jaw  on  their  brow, 

Or  Jean  o>r  die  anvil,  or  bend  by  the  plough  : 

Or  hit  on  the  woo-  e  board 

Where  broadcloth,  and  buckram,  and  bodkin  are  stor'd  : 

'Tis  nought,  whether  hands  ply  the  pickaxe  and  hoe, 

Or,  veiJ'd  in  white  kid,  take  a  diamond  in  tow  : 

Whether  sable  or  pale,  brown  or  fair,  be  the  skin  : 

If  Heart  and  if  Mind  form  the  glory  within  ! 

Hut  'tis  a//,  whether  1ke$e  an  ascendancy  hold 
-andeur  or  meanness,  of  tins*  I  or  gold  : 
nil,  whether  tJiese  have  an  empire  sublime 
the  playthings  of  Ljfe,  o'er  the  change*  of  Tune  : 

Or,  whether,  sunk  down  in  frivolities  here, 
That  kingdom  within  is  unjoyous  and  drear. 


64 

It  is  all,  whether  these  in  a  deep  fervent  love 

Have  been  given  to  God,  and  are  looking  above 

With  a  faith  that  still  humble,  yet  steadfast  and  true, 

Seeks  meekly  and  firmly,  ail  duty  to  do : 

That  feels  it  knows  little,  and  less  can  perform, 

Yet  prays  the  wide  wish  God  would  ever  keep  warm: — 

It  is  all,  that  our  circle  of  being  below 

Be  fill 'd  in  our  measure  to  do  and  to  know  : 

It  is  all,  that  we  walk  by  the  chart  He  hath  given 

To  guide  Heart  and  Mind  with  sure  compass  to  Heaven! 


TO    MISS    . 

How  seldom,  as  the  various  throng 

Of  human  kindred  moves  along. 

Across  our  daily  path  are  thrown 

The  hearts,  the  minds,  that  charm  our  own  ! 

But  if.  Life's  common  forms  between. 
Such  visions  sweetly  intervene. 
Short  is  their  sojourn, — brief  their  stay. 
Like  ••  thoughts  in  dreams,"  they  pass  away  ! 

And  yet  we  would  not  lose  the  flowers 
They  flung  upon  a  few  brief  hours, 
Not  out  o\  MemrVs  tablet,  tear 
The  page  their  converse  made  so  fair. 


65 

We  would  not  lose  each  gentle  thought 
Of  grace  and  sweetness  thou  hast  taught, 
Or  let  thy  image  cease  to  be 
Among  the  stars  of  Memory  J 


A    CONTRAST-AND    ITS    MORAL 


A  child  of  sorrow  pass'd  along 
'Mid  the  gay  city's  evening  throng. 
The  trembling  step — the  troubled  eye — 
The  face  of  haggard  vacancy, 
And  garb,  scarce  shielding  from  the  cold, 
Had  half  his  mournful  story  told. 
While  cheerless  blew  the  wintry  wind, 
No  sheltering  roof  was  his  to  find  : 
Th'  inebriate  stamp'd  his  burning  brow, 
He  was  a  hopeless  outcast  now. 
Once  had  been  his,  the  nurturing  ties 
And  joys  of  life's  kind  sympathies; 
But  trouble  came; — stroke  sent  on  stroke 
His  fortunes  crush'd — his  spirit  broke. 
The  friends  of  summer  flitted  by, 
The  winter  came, — no  friend  was  nigh. 
Deep  had  the  iron  entered  in 
His  soul — and  mis'ry  led  to  sin. 
6* 


66 


Temptation  in  insidious  form 

Rose  on  the  darkness  of  the  storm  : 

And  as  the  draught  of  Lethe  stole 

Over  the  sorrows  of  his  soul, 

Oh  !  the  poor  bosom  seemed  to  crave 

The  sweet  forgetful ness  it  gave. 

He  had  not  early  learn'd  to  pray, 

He  knew  not  how  to  turn  away, 

Again  he  sought  the  Circean  cup, 

And  drank  its  secret  poison  up  ; 

Till,  step  by  step,  his  downward  course 

Like  a  strong  torrent  in  its  force, 

O'er-leaping  every  holy  bound, 

Each  whisp'ring  check  of  conscience  drown'd. 

And  now  an  alien  in  distress, 

No  home  to  cheer — no  smile  to  bless, 

Cast  off  by  all, — unlov'd,  alone, 

He  journey'd  forth — a  friendless  one! — 

Oh  !   it  was  hard — that  bitter  night, 

To  pass  the  homes  whose  fires  burn'd  bright, 

And  think  on  what  his  own  had  been, 

And  none  to  let  the  wanderer  in ! 


There,  where  he  sank  exhausted  down, 
On  high,  the  lighted  windows  shone; 
And,  glitt'ring  as  in  blaze  of  noon, 
Glow'd  gorgeously,  the  gay  saloon. 
No  pining  want — corroding  care, — 
Or  aching  wretchedness, — was  there  ; 
In  ringing  mirth  and  laughter  loud, 
Went  up  the  voices  of  the  crowd. 


67 


Rich  nectar,  sparkling  high  and  bright 
Crown'd  the  full  chalice  of  the  night; 
And,  in  their  yet  untainted  breath, 
Were  lifted  to  the  draught  of  death, 
'Mid  syren  numbers  softly  sung, — 
— Lips  of  the  fair — the  gay — the  young. 
Till  quicken'd  pulse,  and  giddy  brain, 
And  fever'd  thoughts,  all  light  and  vain, 
Bore  truthful  witness  to  the  power 
Of  "  social  feeling's"  festive  hour. 

How  kindly,  of  the  prosperous  proud, 

The  daily  foibles  are  allow'd  ! 

Had  yon  poor  outcast  thither  turn'd, 

The  low  inebriate  had  been  spurn'd. 

Yet  who  can  say,  that  in  the  Eye 

Of  Him  who  pass'd  the  Levite  by, 

.More  guilty  he  in  want  and  woe, 

And  outlawry  of  all  below, 

Tho'  lone,  despised,  and  desolate, — 

Than  thousands  in  their  high  estate  ! 

Who  of  the  burning  evil  sip 

With  heart  unscath'd — unfever'd  lip, 

By  no  worn  spirit  thither  led, 

No  tortur'd  nerve — no  aching  head  ; — 

And  call  it  but  the  cup  refin'd, 

Meet  lux'ry  of  convivial  mind. 

Touch — taste  it  not!  ye  who  would  close 

One  avenue  to  human  woes  : 

Nor  shrink  your  little  part  to  yield 

Of  labor  in  this  harvest-field. 


68 

If  thus  from  sin  and  mis'ry's  sway 
But  one  poor  brother  turn  away, 
Blest  be  the  hand  of  helping  given 
Which  guides  him  back  to  hope  and  heaven  ! 


ASPIRATIONS. 


Fly,  Demon  of  Torpor  !  whose  dun  shadows  roll 

In  life-whelming  blight  o'er  the  health  of  the  soul  ! 

And  drink  up  in  death  the  warm  glow  of  the  heart, 

And  Feeling  all  freeze,  save  where  self  has  a  part. 

Back,  back  to  thy  dwelling  of  deep-shrouding  night; 

Thou  hast  bound  me  too  long  'neath  thy  spell  and  thy  blight. 

Away  from  my  spirit !  hence — hence  with  thy  chain  ! 

Nay,  wind  not  its  links  round  this  bosom  again  ! 

Fly,  Demon  of  Torpor!  and  haste  in  thy  stead, 

Too  long  from  this  bosom  in  recreance  fled, 

O  !  Spirit  of  Freshness,  and  Feeling,  and  Joy, 

That  callest  the  heart  to  each  nobler  employ  ! 

Ah  !  rush  o'er  my  breast  yet  once  more  in  thy  might, 

And  bid  it  to  glow  in  thy  strength  and  thy  light! 

And  beat  in  its  pulse  with  a  quicken'd  desire 

To  hear  the  glad  accents  which  tell  it — m  Aspire  ."' 


w 


Come,  Faith  !  soaring  up  to  the  region  above! 
Come,  Hope  !  mounting  high,  on  the  pinion  of  Love  ! 
Breathe  into  my  spirit  new  life  from  the  sky, 
And  speak  of  the  glories  that  never  shall  die  ! 
Far,  far  on  yon  heaven,  Joy's  dwelling  and  source, 
Fix  the  wish  of  my  heart  and  the  aim  of  my  course  ; 
And  bear  it  still  onward  while  Time's  waters  roll; 
Immortal  the  race — and  eternal  the  goal ! 


THOUGHTS    ON    PASSING    WEST    POINT. 

How  calm,  how  beautiful,  it  lies 

Beneath  these  sunny  summer  skies  ! 

Amid  whose  changing  shade  or  light 

The  deep  ravine,  the  wooded  height, 

Softly  sublime,  through  hill  and  dell, 

Alternate  gently  sink  or  swell  ; 

Mirror'd  in  faithful  life  below 

On  the  transparent  river's  flow. 

Where  Nature's  voice  points  thought  above, 

And  speaks  tranquillity  and  love, 

Can  earthly  strife  or  jar  intrude 

To  mar  the  spirit's  happy  mood  * 

Ah  !  meet  would  seem,  in  scenes  like  these, 

Hymns,  altars,  to  the  God  of  Peace  ! 


70 

Yet  here,  in  scenes  like  these,  are  found 

Far  other  sight,  far  harsher  sound. 

Amid  these  hills  the  cannon  roars, 

The  martial  clarion's  music  pours  ; 

And  here,  profaningly,  doth  come 

The  soldier's  step, — the  rolling-  drum. 

Here  daily  moves  the  measured  tread 

As  on  the  plain  where  hosts  have  bled  ; 

Here  practised  hands  fierce  weapons  wield, 

Rehearsing  for  the  battle  field  ; 

Here  glitt'ring  swords  flash  bright  and  high, 

Here  gleams  the  bayonet  in  the  sky  ; 

And  here  grows  he,  whom  God  made  "good,1 

A  workman  trained  to  deeds  of  blood. 

I  turn'd  away,  and  hid  the  woe 

None  near  me  might  have  car'd  to  know, 

Which  bow'd,  as  in  the  dust,  my  soul, 

For  ills  'twas  powerless  to  control. 

Silent  went  up  the  lonely  prayer, 

(I  could  not  ask  one  heart  to  share,) 

How  long,  how  long,  Almighty  Lord  ! 

Tarrieth  the  vict'ry  of  Thy  Word  1 

Oh  !  send  Thy  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love, 

To  break,  resistless,  from  above  ! 

Earth's  jealous,  jarring  nations  bring 

Beneath  thy  white-robed  angel's  wing  : 

Bind  them  with  bonds  no  foe  can  sever  ; 

Forbid  the  sword  "  to  slay  for  ever !" 


71 


DANGER    AND    DELIVERANCE. 


When  sorrows  cluster  round  us 

In  sad  and  gloomy  form  ; 
When  the  deep  shades  surround  us 

Of  Evil's  coming-  storm  : 
When  fears  and  woes  assail  us, 

And  dangers  strew  our  road, 
Oh !  then,  as  comforts  fail  us, 

We  flee — we  flee  to  God! 

There,  humbled  down  before  Him, 

We  lift  the  streaming  eye, 
And  lowly  kneel,  imploring 

The  cloud  might  pass  us  by  : 
In  deep  confession  bending, — 

Feeling  our  weakness  all, 
Plead,  that  the  blow  impending 

May  not  be  bid  to  fall. 

And  lo  !  the  storm  is  over ! 

A  rainbow  fair  is  seen  ! 
Sweet  Peace  returns,  to  hover 

Where  late,  dark  clouds  had  been. 


72 

Again  our  sky  is  brighten'd 

And  terrors  chas'd  away  ; 
And  our  sooth'd  hearts  re-lighlen'd 

With  Joy's  returning  ray. 

Say  now;  does  glad  thanksgiving 

To  Him  who  spar'd  His  rod, 
Rise,  with  the  soul's  reviving, 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God  1 
The  Hand  we  own'd  when  mourning, 

Do  we  in  mercies  see1? 
And  trace  our  joys,  returning, 

To  His  benignity  1 

O  !   does  the  heart  of  gladness 

As  ardent  mount  in  prayer, 
As  when  in  drooping  sadness 

It  knelt,  a  suppliant  there? 
And  does  the  same  deep  feeling 

That  fill'd  the  plaintive  cry, 
Now  glow  in  praise,  re\ealing 

The  grateful  moist.en'd  eye  ? 

Ah,  no!  the  thankless  bosom 

In  peace,  in  joy  grows  cold  ; 
And  comfort's  bright'ning  blossom 

Blooms  not  in  richest  mould. 
While  dread  affliction  lours 

We  turn  to  Him  in  pain ; 
But  lost  'mid  happier  hours. 

Soon  flutter  off  again. 


Where,  through  a  day  of  sorrow 

Deep,  piercing  plaints  we  raise, 
We  lift,  on  joyous  morrow 

A  lifeless,  heartless  praise  : 
So  cold,  so  poor  an  offering 

In  grief  we  would  not  hring  ; 
But  every  blessing  clustering 

Bows  down  devotion's  wing. 

Ah  !  Man  !  unthankful  being 

For  choicest  favors  here, 
To  Him,  The  Great  All-seeing 

What  must  thy  vows  appear  ? 
Oh  !  rise !  the  New  Creation  ! 

A  heart  of  purer  mould  ; 
And  warm  this  desolation 

With  love  that  grows  not  cold. 


74 


LONELINESS. 


And  art  thou  lonely  ? — and  is  God  still  good  1 

Why  then  these  mournful  plaints — these  rising-  tears  1 
Look  round !  on  each  kind  gift  that  still  endears 

The  chequer'd  scene  of  life's  vicissitude  ! 

And  art  thou  lonely? — and  does  Faith  yet  live 1 

Are  her  bright  prospects  dimm'd,  her  hopes  less  true  1 
O  !  then,  rekindled  be  each  heavenly  view, 

And  let  their  glories  all  thy  heart  revive. 

And  art  thou  lonely  1 — and  is  Heaven  still  bright  1 
Look  upwards  to  the  holy  throng  on  high ! 
Let  hope  embrace  the  blest  society 

Of  spirits,  radiant  in  eternal  light ! 

Ah  !  be  not  lonely, — while  thy  God  is  near  ; 

Or  faith  can  look  to  heav'n  thro'  rapture's  secret  tear. 


75 


DEPRESSION. 


Child  of  immortal  hopes  !  why  droops  thy  soul  ! 

Why  trembling,  looks  it  forth  on  Life's  rough  way, 

Dejected,  faithless  1  turn  not  thus  astray, 
Let  heavenly  trust  these  anxious  fears  control 
Oh  !  in  the  past,  to  thee  hath  it  been  given 

To  feel  a  tender  Parent's  holy  care  ; 

Each  present  good,  still  gratefully  to  share, 
And  leave  its  griefs,  in  peaceful  faith,  with  Heaven. 

Cease  then  these  tears  :  raise  thy  dimm'd  vision  there  : 
A  Father's  hand  controls  Time's  troubled  tide  : 

And  where-soe'er  on  its  cold  bosom  driven, 
His  love  thy  devious  footsteps  still  shall   guide. 

Ah !  heed  not  where  thro'  earth  those  steps  may  roam, 
So  they  but  reach  at  last,  the  spirit's  blessed  home! 


76 


THE    DUTY    OF    THE    LYRE. 

Retire,  vain  dreams  of  wild  Romance! 

No  more  I  court  your  spell : 
Come,  Thought!  and  o'er  thy  pure  expanse 
Let  Mind's  serene,  benignant  glance 
Excursive  range,  in  loftier  trance : 

And  to  this  bosom  tell 
Of  themes  than  Fancy's  nights  more  high, 
Themes,  form'd  for  Immortality. 

Of  hopes  that  reach  the  boundless  heaven 

In  their  clear,  tranquil  flight ; 
Of  peace  from  Life's  pure  fountain  given, 
Joys,  that  in  Sorrow's  soil  have  thriven  : 
Faith,  that  with  Earth's  deep  woes  hath  striven 

And  let  their  powers  unite 
To  form  a  wreath  around  thy  lyre, 
Worthy  of  poet's  loftiest  fire. 

Speak  of  Philanthropy's  wide  aims 

To  soften  life's  distress  : 
Of  Duty's  holy,  earnest  claims, 
Of  Thought  and  Feeling's  blending  flames 
O'er  all  the   schemes  which  Virtue  frames 

To  comfort  and  to  bless 


77 


This  world's  deep  shades  of  pain  and  grief, 
With  light,  and  effort,  and  relief. 

Wake  to  the  high  and  pure  reward 
Of  labor, — aim, — divine  ! 

While  wealthier  hands  rich  gifts  afford, 

Thy  little  all  do  thou  accord, 

And  to  the  treasury  of  thy  Lord 

Thy  "  widow's  mite"  consign  ; 

Nor  will  that  mite  be  scorned  by  Him 

Who  watches  from  the  seraphim. 


VERSES, 

COMPOSED    ON    A    BED    OF    SEVERE    SICKNESS,    AT    SIXTEEN. 

One  sweet  hour  of  ease  is  stealing 
O'er  the  pangs  my  frame  has  known  : 

One  blest  morn  of  calmer  feeling 
Heav'n  has  sent  me  as  my  own. 

Oh  !  how  sweet  to  feel  returning 

Power  to  think,  and  strength  to  pray  ! 

Sweet,  to  feel  my  spirit  burning 

Once  again  with  Thought's  bright  ray  ! 

7* 


78 


Pain,  methinks,  would  not  so  keenly 
Press  her  slow-exhausting  weight, 

Might  it  leave  my  soul,  serenely 
Soaring  in  her  upward  flight. 


But,  on  earth,  a  nameless  union, 
E'en  in  minds  of  brightest  ray, 

Still  will  blend,  in  close  communion, 
Spirit  and  its  garb  of  clay. 


Scarce  can  feel  the  feeble  nature, 
Bound  in  painful  chains  below, 

Strength  to  find  her  soul's  Creator, 
Strength  to  rise  from  outward  woe. 


Then,  when  anguish  sharp,  distressing, 
All  the  sinking  frame  has  fraught, 

Some  new  throb  of  pain  repressing 
Each  fond  aim  of  mind  and  thought; 


What  shall  soothe  the  surT'ring  spirit? 

What — her  feeble  flights  sustain  1 
What  shall  bid  the  breast  inherit 

Calmness  'neath  her  mortal  pain  1 

Can  she  soar  to  high  reflection  ] 

Can  her  wonted  vigor  rise, 
Triumph  o'er  the  soul's  affliction, 

Break  the  spirit's  fleshly  ties  1 


79 


No ! — in  vain  the  Stoic,  deeming 

Suff'ring  nought, — would  scorn  its  power  : 
Yet  one  purer  thought  is  beaming 

Brightly  radiant,  evermore. 

Thou  art  nigh,  her  heart's  salvation  ! 

Thou,  her  fortress,  still  art  near : 
Thou  wilt  aid  in  tribulation, 

Thou  canst  soften  every  tear. 

Though  the  strength  of  faith  should  languish, 

Yet  if  faint  it  beameth  there, 
Though  the  heart,  'mid  throbbing  anguish 

Scarce  can  breathe  the  feeble  prayer ; 

Thou  wilt  bless,  unask'd,  that  offering, 

Weak  and  languid  tho'  it  be  : 
Thou  wilt  temper  all  its  suffering 

As  thy  love  shall  wisest  see. 

Thou  canst  teach  the  sinking  spirit 
Chastening  is  the  gift  of  Love  : 

Thou  canst  bid  the  soul  inherit 
Peace  and  calmness  from  above. 


Oh  !  may  pain  fulfil  her  duty  ; 

Heavenly  hope  and  faith  instil  : 
Then  my  soul  shall  feel  what  beauty 

Lies  in  loving  all  Thy  Will. 


80 


Peace — my  spirit ! — tho'  it  grieve  thee, 
Strive  to  bear  the  painful  rod : 

Trust  in  Him,  who  ne'er  will  leave  thee, 
Father — Friend — Creator-God  ! 


HYMN, 

WRITTEN    BY    REQUEST    FOR   THE   PUBLIC    SERVICES   HELD    IN    SALEM,    NEW 
JERSEY,    APRIL   23,  1841,    ON    THE   DEATH    OF   PRESIDENT   HARRISON. 

(Sung  on  that  occasion  by  the  Choir.) 

Why  slowly  tolls  the  muffled  bell  1 

Why  move  those  throngs  in  sadness  bow'd  1 

It  is  a  nation's  griefs,  that  swell 

These  funeral  tones,  this  mournful  crowd. 

That  nation's  hope,  fix'd  warm  and  bright, 
On  him,  her  lov'd  and  cherish'd  son, 

Fair  in  its  dawning,  fear'd  no  blight 
To  mar  its  promis'd  benizon. 

But  God  hath  smitten:  and  His  voice 

Let  humbled  man  in  reverence  hear: 
Nor  question  ways  of  wisest  choice, 

Nor  deem  the  sad  decree  severe. 


^1 


Perhaps  an  arm  of  earthly  power 

He  saw  too  much  our  stay  and  trust ; 

And  therefore  hade  His  judgments  lower, 
And  laid  our  chosen  in  the  dust, — 

To  teach  a  nation's  stricken  heart 
Each  human  prop  is  quickly  riven  ; 

And  call  us  to  a  holier  part, 

And  fix  our  hope  and  help  on  Heaven. 

Thy  chast'ning  hand,  mysterious  still, 
Lord  !  may  a  prostrate  people  own  ; 

And  hring,  in  this,  their  time  of  ill, 

The  heart's  new  offering  at  Thy  Throne. 


THE    SPANISH    BELL, 

PURCHASED    FOR    A    PROTESTANT    CHURCH. 

Where  hath  that  deep,  deep  voice  of  thine  been  sounding 

O'er  ocean's  foam  1 
Hath  it  to  mass  brought  gather'd  crowds,  surrounding 

Some  ancient  dome1? 
Hurrying  forward,  (with  the  mystic  sign 

Hasty  and  frequent  on  their  bosom  press'd 
As  Heaven's  own  safeguard,) — to  confession's  shrine, 
Dreading-  to  die  unshriven  and  unblest] 


82 


Where,  from  his  lips,  whose  gorgeous  pageantry 

Of  dazzling  raiment  shone  with  tissued  gold, 
"  Domine  !    Domine  !" — arose  on  high 

In  rapid  speech,  while  curling  incense  roll'd? 
Where  hath  that  deep,  deep  voice  of  thine  been  sounding 

O'er  ocean's  foam  1 
Hath  it  to  mass  brought  gather'd  crowds,  surrounding 
Some  ancient  dome  7 


O'er  the  dark  cloister  have  thy  tones  been  pealing 

From  lone,  high  tower  1 
At  early  matin  through  the  long  aisle  stealing, 

Or  vesper  hour  1 
Where  the  veil'd  sisters  trod  with  downcast  eye, 

Fearing  to  see  that  God's  own  light  is  fair, 
As,  bending  o'er  the  counted  rosary, 

Their  "  Ave  Marias"  floated  through  the  air  1 
Where,  tremblingly,  the  monk's  low  footstep  pass'd, 

Wending  its  way  to  penance  unrequir'd, 
And  vigil,  torturing  scourge,  and  wasting  fast, 

Service  of  abject  fear,  not  love,  inspir'd  ] 
O'er  the  dark  cloister  have  thy  tones  been  pealing 

From  lone,  high  tower  1 
At  early  matin  through  the  long  aisle  stealing, 
Or  vesper  hour  1 


Lo  !  to  a  purer  fane  we  welcome  thee, 
Deep-sounding  Bell  ! 

Of  happier  faith,  of  holier  unity, 
Now  shalt  thou  tell  ! 


83 

Call  thou  the  christian  to  his  house  of  prayer, 

Where  solemn  rites  the  humbled  spirit  lead 
In  calm  devotion  ;   call  the  mourner  there, 

To  feel  the  bruised  is  not  a  broken  reed  ! 
Call  the  warm  heart  of  gladness,  to  rejoice 

In  cheerful  praise;  call  mingling  souls  to  send 
Up  to  the  mercy-seat  united  voice, 

And  in  one  prayer  with  meek  contrition  bend. 
Lo !   to  a  purer  fane  we  welcome  thee, 

Deep-sounding  Bell  ! 
Of  happier  faith,  of  holier  unity, 
Now  shalt  thou  tell  ! 


And  when  our  footsteps  shall  have  pass'd  forever 

From  earth  away, 
When  Sabbath-bell  again  can  wake  us  never 

To  life  and  day, 
Long  with  thy  sound  may  holy  thoughts  be  blent, 

Sweet  be  its  call  to  grateful  offerings  here, 
'Mid  those  whose  lip  shall  praise,  whose  knee  be  bent, 

When  ceas'd  our  worship  in  an  earthly  sphere ! 
Others  shall  tread  the  paths  that  we  have  trod, 
Others  shall  bring  their  vows  to  Zion's  hill, 
And  at  thy  bidding  seek  this  house  of  God, 

When  low  our  heads  are  laid,  our  hearts  are  still  ! 
Yes !  when  our  footsteps  shall  have  pass'd  forever 

From  earth  away ; 

When  Sabbath-bell  again  can  wake  us  never 

To  life  and  day  ! 


84 


FEELINGS   DURING    THUNDER   AND    LIGHTNING. 


Ah  !  why  these  anxious  cares,  my  soul ! 

As,  in  the  summer  day, 
Beneath  the  storm's  sublime  control, 
The  glorious  thunders  round  thee  roll, 

And  rapid  lightnings  play  1 
Why  then  should  aught  disturb  the  calm 
Of  solemn  thought,  with  dread  of  harm  1 

It  is  not  that  the  thunder's  peal 

Is  terrible  to  hear; 
Nor  that  yon  opening  clouds  reveal 
Glories  too  bright,  for  mind  to  feel 

Compos'd  in  mortal  sphere  : 
Grand  are  these  scenes  :  to  heart  and  eye 
Speaking  their  Maker's  majesty. 

But  when  the  storm  is  sweeping  by 
In  splendors  and  in  glooms, 

And  hurrying  lightnings  glance  and  fly 

In  piercing  radiance  o'er  the  sky, 
A  thought  of  terror  comes  : 

"  Haply,  the  next  bright  flash  may  be 

A  herald  sent  to  call  for  me  /" 


85 

Yet  joyful,  grateful  could  1  go 

In  that  bright  flash  away, 
And  spring  from  scenes  and  things  below, 
And  soar  to  being's  higher  glow, 

From  weights  of  sin  and  clay, 
Without  one  pang,  one  tear,  to  leave 
The  passing  pleasures  earth  can  weave,— 

Could  I  but  feel  the  Spirit's  voice 

Deep  witnessing  within, 
That,  far  on  high,  where  praise  employs 
The  soul,  in  saints'  and  angels'  joys, 

My  part  would  then  begin  : 
That,  purified  by  Jesus'  blood, 
My  spirit  should  repose  in  God  ! 

Oh  !  were  this  blest  assurance  mine, 
My  heart  with  joy  would  greet 

High  in  the  storm,  a  Power  Divine; 

And,  should  He  then  my  change  assign, 
It  could  not  come  too  fleet, 

Might  I  but  know,  were  such  my  lot, 

The  sting  of  Death  should  reach  me  not  ! 

Saviour!    with  gently  pitying  ear 

O  !  listen  while  1  pray  ! 
Remove  the  bonds  of  death's  dark  fear, 
Impart  the  faith,  serene  and  clear, 

That  I  may  learn  to  say, 
No  more  in  dread  from  whelming  guilt,™ 
"  Come  quickly,  Lord!  and  as  Thou  wilt!" 


8fi 


LINES 


WRITTEN     AFTER     READING    AN    INTERESTING     INSTANCE    OF    HUMANITY 
TO    A    HORSE. 


We  read  who*  tamed  the  daring 

Of  bold  Bucephalus : 
But  deeds  of  gentler  bearing 

Stand  not  recorded  thus  : 
These  take  no  rank  in  story, 

They  deck  no  polish'd  page, 
Yet,  in  their  modest  glory, 

Might  teach  a  boasting  age. 

Oh  !  it  is  sweetly  cheering 

When  noiseless  acts  are  done 
Of  Love  and  quiet  goodness, 

If  to  Life's  lowliest  one  ! 
Though  Hist'ry's  roll  of  treasure 

Their  legends  ne'er  will  keep, 
They  touch  some  hearts  with  pleasure, 

Thankful,  and  warm,  and  deep. 

*  Alexander  of  Maredon. 


Unlike  to  Nero's  mother,* 

Or  Byron's,  sure  was  thine, 
Thou  pitying;  human  brother! 

Stranger — of  heart  benign  ! 
Sure  she  was  gently  loving  ! 

And  not  to  thee  alone; 
But  with  a  bosom  moving 

For  suffering's  every  groan. 

Oh!  ye!  who  childhood  watching, 

The  heart's  first  impulse  guide  ! 
An  hourly  influence  catching 

In  lessons  at  your  side  ; 
Teach  ye  that  law  of  kindness 

To  all  the  brute  oppress'd, 
Too  oft,  in  guilty  blindness 

Neglected,  or  repress'd. 

Begin,  in  life's  young  morning: 

Untiring,  watchful  be  : 
Chide  the  first  early  dawning 

Of  childish  cruelty: 
Respect,  in  Being's  station, 

Each  moving,  living  thing  ; 
Each  right  of  dumb  creation, 

Ev'n  of  an  insect's  wing  .- 

Then,  then,  no  tyrant  Roman, j" 
Who  murd'ring  flies  was  found, 

Shall  History's  future  gnomon 
Point  on  your  household  ground  : 

*  Agrippina  the  Younger.  t  Domitian. 


6b 

Then  shall  no  human  demon 
From  your  loved  hearths  arise, 

To  ravage  lands  of  freemen, 

To  light  War's  reddening  skies  ! 


HYMN. 


When  I  can  keep  my  conscience  clear, 
Great  God  !  from  wilful  sin, 

1  shed  the  blissful,  precious  tear 
Which  flows  from  peace  within. 

I  lift  my  glowing  heart  on  high 

Whence  strength  and  power  are  given, 

And,  grateful,  own  the  victory 
Was  not  of  me,  but  Heaven. 

O  !  might  I  put  this  armor  on, 

For  ever  pure  and  bright, 
By  which  the  saints  of  old  have  won 

In  faith's  celestial  fight; 

Arm'd  with  its  perfect  panoply 
Of  watchfulness  and  prayer, 

Look  upward  when  temptation's  nigh, 
And  find  a  helper  there  ; 


89 


Then  should  my  footsteps  swiftly  press 

Along  the  christian  road, 
And  I  shall  every  conflict  bless 

That  leads  me  up  to  God. 


STANZAS. 

WRITTEN    AT    AN    EARLY    AGE. 

Come,  spirit  of  the  thrilling  lyre  ! 

Pour  o'er  my  soul  thy  fresh'ning  flow  ! 
Call  from  its  urn  the  slumbering  fire 

Of  Mind  to  glow  ! 

Wake  in  my  heart  some  living  stream 

Of  ardent  thought  unknown  before  : 

Send  from  on  high  one  piercing  beam 

Of  light  and  power ! 

Yet  not  to  win  a  robe  from  fame, 
Crave  I  thy  gifts  to  fall  on  me; 
Or  bind  the  wreath  around  my  name 
Of  minstrelsy. 

I  fain  would  feel  that  these  are  nought : 

That  little  can  they  bring  of  bliss  : 
Truth's  pensive  lessons  long  have  taught 
My  spirit  this. 

8* 


90 

Oh  !  when  Time's  latest  hour  hath  shed 

On  closing  lids  the  damp  of  death, 
And  hast'ning  to  the  sever'd  dead 

Is  life's  faint  breath, 

What  boots  it,  to  the  ebbing  soul, 
That  it  hath  left  a  name  behind, 
Or  round  it  cast,  with  proud  control, 

The  spell  of  Mind  ? 

What  boots  it,  that  with  happy  art, 

It  wak'd  the  smile  or  tear  at  will, 
Or  touch'd  the  pulses  of  the  heart 

With  wildest  thrill  ? 


Pale  shadows  all — and  worthless  now 

The  wreath  of  ivy,  bay,  or  palm  ! 
These  breathe  not  o'er  the  death-chill'd  brow 
One  spirit-balm. 


But  if,  from  Time's  receding  shore 

That  soul  should  turn  in  survey  back, 
And  glancing  retrospective  o'er 

Its  mental  track, 


It  then  may  trace  one  line  of  love 

By  which  to  some  poor  heart  it  spoke, 
And  rais'd  that  throbbing  heart  above 

Earth's  sordid  yoke  ; 


91 


One  effort  pure,  by  which  it  sought 

To  soothe  life's  suffering,  wake  the  glow 
Of  sympathizing  deed  and  thought 

For  human  woe ; 

One  impulse  blest,  one  aim   benign, 

Which  taught  it  Truth's  high  cause  to  plead. 
And  pointed,  in  a  world  divine, 

Hope's  brightest  meed  ; 

O  !  it  were  worth  the  wealth  of  mines, 

Such  holy  thankfulness  to  buy, 
As  retrospect  like  this  entwines 

With  death's  last  sigh. 

Come  then,  thou  spirit  of  the  lyre  ! 

Shed  thy  high  influence  o'er  my  breast ; 
On  purest  themes  may  heavenly  fire 

Descending,  rest. 


And  kindle  all  my  ardent  soul 

With  glowing  radiance  from  above; 
And  pour  it  in  a  blameless  scroll 

Of  truth  and  love  ! 


Teach  my  young  pen  its  course  to  bend 

Through  themes  with  Virtue's  promptings  fraught, 
And  with  its  every  lesson  blend 

The  pure  in  thought! 


92 


Nor  let  it  trace  one  sullying  line 

To  cloud  with  pain  reflection's  hour: 
Nor  bring  one  gift  to  fancy's  shrine 

Of  wasted  power. 

Thus  may  that  lyre,  tho'  faint  its  tone, 

Tho'  to  its  strings  small  sweep  be  given, 
Prove  to  this  heart  a  hallow'd  boon, 

And  blest  of  heaven  ! 


THE   PAST    AND    THE   PRESENT. 


Fancy  has  had  her  day, 

And  gilds  my  path  no  more  : 
Yet  if  her  brilliant  ray 
Lent  charms  to  Error's  sway, 

Adieu,  ye  days  of  yore  ! 

I  would  not  mourn  your  loss, 
If  better  things  ye  leave  : 
Your  pathway  spread  with  moss, 
Scenes  rich  in  summer's  gloss, — 
For  these  I  would  not  grieve. 


93 

Yet,  when  1  pause,  and  view 
These  early  beauties  dead, 

I  ask,  what  fairer  hue 

Hath  risen  to  renew 

The  blooming  verdure  shed  "? 

Where  earthly  flowers  arose, 
Luxuriant  as  the  morn, 
Do  blossoms  now  unclose 
Of  heavenly  growth  ?  like  those 

Which  Sharon's  bowers  adorn  1 


Where  Fancy's  reign  is  o'er, 

Does  mild  Religion's  sway 
Mind's  temper'd  powers  restore, 
And  lead  them  now  to  soar 

From  earth — from  sin  away  1 


Where  Feeling's  thrill  is  past 

On  trifles  light  as  air, 
Is  now  its  lustre  cast 
On  hopes  sublime  and  vast, 
To  glow  and  kindle  there  '? 

Where  wild  excursive  Thought 

Aerial  flights  pursu'd, 
Are  now  its  musings  sought 
On  themes  with  glory  fraught, 
Calm — holy — and  subdued  ? 


U4 

Oh  !  my  oft-drooping  soul  ! 

From  cares  and  woes  of  earth 
Turn,  to  that  high  control 
Which  makes  the  wounded  whole, 

Child  of  celestial  birth  ! 


On  Him  who  changeth  not, 

Repose  thy  heart's  fond  trust: 

Safe  in  His  chosen  spot, 

To  Him  confide  thyr  lot, 

The  Merciful!  the  Just! 


On  uncreated  might 

Let  thy  worn  spirit  rest : 
His  grace  shall  guide  its  flight 
Through  regions  of  delight, 

Pure — passionless — and  blest. 


On  excellence  divine 

Let  thy  high  gaze  be  riven  : 
So  glorious  gleams  shall  shine 
Of  joys  that  may  be  thine, 

When  safely  moor'd — in  heaven. 


Thus,  from  Earth's  faded  flowers 
Thine  eye  may  smiling  rise 
And  fix  on  Eden's  bowers, 
On  bliss  of  countless  hours, 
The  treasure  of  the  skies. 


95 

Wake,  then,  to  life  sublime  ! 

Rise  from  th'  entombing  sod  ! 
For  hopes  unchanged  by  time, 
Joys  ever  in  their  prime, 
Fruits  of  perennial  clime, 

Turn  to  the  throne  of  God! 


CHRIST'S    RESURRECTION.-Matt.  xxvm.  l. 


They  came  to  see  where  that  loved  form  was  lying, 
Which  they  had  watch'd  unto  the  cross  and  death 

Sisters,  in  faithful  love  and  sorrow  vying, 
Still  echoed  in  their  ear  the  last  deep  breath 

Of  Him,  their  Saviour,  when  his  cup  to  fill, 

He  gave  His  spirit  up,  unto  His  Father's  will. 


They  came  in  fearful  hour  :  around  that  dwelling 
Of  lonely  sepulture,  strange  things  were  seen  : 

The  firm  earth  tremhled  :  and,  their  steps  repelling, 
One  stood  beside  it  of  a  seraph's  mien  : 

His  raiment  as  the  snow:  his  face  like  day 

When  lightning  o'er  the  clouds  breaks  its  resplendent  way. 


m 

The  stone  was  roll'd  from  thence,  whose  strong  protection 
Their  anxious  bosoms  dreaded  as  they  came  : 

And  they  who  kept  it  sat  in  deep  dejection 
With  ashy  brow,  and  terror-shaken  frame  : 

The  strong  men  shrank,  the  watchers  bow'd  in  fear, 

And  like  the  senseless  dead,  their  pallid  cheeks  appear. 

Then  spake  th'  angelic  guard  who  watch  was  keeping ; 

"  Be  not  affrighted — ye  who  seek  your  Lord  ! 
No  longer  in  the  grave's  dark  portal  sleeping, 

Lo !  He  has  risen  !  faithful  to  His  word  ! 
Go,  and  impart  the  joy  :  distrust  no  more  : 
And  soon  your  eyes  shall  see  Him  whom  your  hearts  adore. 

Ah!  grateful  then,  to  tell  the  wondrous  story 
'Mid  those  they  left  in  anguish  and  in  fear, 

Onward  they  hasten'd  :  but,  behold  !   the  glory 
Of  Him  they  seek  surrounds  them  :     He  is  here: 

Burst  is  the  grave,  and  spoil'd  they  sting,    0  !  Death  ! 

Turning  to  those  He  lov'd,  "  All  hail !"    the  Saviour  saith. 

Then  was  an  hour  of  bliss  :  though  scarce  believing 
Their  trembling  sense,  they  knew  him  not  for  joy; 

Till,  from  his  own  blest  lips  of  truth,  receiving 
Assurance  in  her  glorious  certainty, 

The  present  God  their  raptur'd  souls  confess'd, 

They  saw  their  risen  Lord,  and  in  that  pledge  were  blest. 


97 


ASPIKATIONS   AFTER   RELIGIOUS   TRUTH. 

WRITTEN    AT    AN    EARLY    AGE. 

God  of  Truth  !  whose  pure  direction 
Spirits  turn'd  to  Thee,  shall  own  ; 

Gild  this  hour  of  deep  reflection 
With  a  radiance  from  Thy  Throne. 

Calm  the  heart  whose  anxious  beating 

Turns  in  upraised  hope  to  Thee  ; 
From  the  storms  of  life  retreating 

Thy  unshaded  face  to  see. 

Show  the  way  of  Thy  salvation  ! 

Point  my  hope,  and  fix  my  eye  ; 
Teach  my  silent  meditation 

All  the  faith  that  leads  on  high. 

Lead  me  by  the  springs  of  gladness 

Whence  Thy  living  waters  flow  ; 
And  the  doubts  of  anxious  sadness 

Bid  my  spirit  cease  to  know. 
9 


98 


Bend  my  weak  conjecturing  reason 
Into  silence  at  Thy  Throne  ; 

There,  in  Thy  appointed  season, 
Make  Thy  hopes  and  joys  my  own. 

Ah  !  how  short  is  earth's  probation! 

What  is  then,  around  us  here, 
Worth  our  wish — but  thy  salvation  ] 

Worth  our  seeking — but  Thy  fear  ? 

Oh  !  I  ask  not,  here  before  Thee, 
That  this  world  no  griefs  might  show 

Or  that  life  should  journey  o'er  me 
Free  from  cloud — unting'd  with  woe  : 

No !  I  ask  the  hope  that  liveth  ! 

Ask  the  mind  which  leads  to  Thee  ! 
Crave  the  faith  sublime,  that  giveth 

Brightness  to  Eternity ! 

Then  my  soul  shall  bend  adoring, 
Grateful,  'mid  its  raptured  tears; 

And  shall  own  that  radiant  morning 
Overpay  the  mists  of  years ! 


99 


THANKSGIVING  FOR  RELIGIOUS  CONSOLATION. 

WRITTEN    A    FEW    MONTHS    AFTER   THE   PRECEDING. 

Hail  !  dispersing  clouds  of  sadness  ! 

Hail !  thou  hope  of  purest  ray  ! 
Welcome  !   dawn  of  life  and  gladness  ! 

Welcome  !  beam  of  heavenly  day  ! 

Toiling  long,  thro'  paths  of  mourning, 

All  was  doubtful,  dark,  and  drear; 
Few  bright  beams  of  faith  adorning 

Gloomy  ways  of  painful  fear. 

Then  to  Truth's  own  book  retiring, 

Once  again  its  page  I  sought ; 
Yet  once  more  my  heart  inquiring, 

Here,  petitioned  to  be  taught. 

Guided  : — that  no  dark  misleadings 
From  within — without — around, — 

Might  pervert  the  sacred  pleadings 
Of  the  truths  on  holy  ground. 


too 

Blessed  volume  ! — then  it  led  me 
Through  the  paths  of  seeking  care, 

Though  the  gloom  that  overshed  me, 
To  behold  a  Saviour  there  ! 


Then  it  brought  with  deep  impression 
To  my  anxious,  searching  view, 

One  "  High  Priest  of  our  Profession," 
Him, — who  taught — and  suffered  too! 

Ah  !  be  mine  this  high  salvation  ! 

Faith  in  Him  who  died  for  man  ! 
Be  it  mine  through  life's  probation 

Now  to  feel  the  Gospel  plan. 

Be  it  mine,  in  meek  confiding, 

Through  Him,  Lord  !   to  come  to  Thee  ! 
And,  in  that  command  abiding, 

All  "  His  Righteousness"  to  see. 

Fare  ye  well !  ye  poor  dependings  ! 

Virtues,  weak  and  frail,  away  ! 
Never  more  shall  your  dim  blendings 

Mingle  with  the  sinner's  stay. 

Yes  !  my  soul  has  bent  adoring 
Grateful  'mid  its  raptured  tears  : 

And  has  owned  this  radiant  morning 
Overpays  the  mists  of  years  ! 


101 


TO    MY   FATHER,    ON    HIS    SIXTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

Mr  Father!  tho'  thy  birthday's  coming  morn 
Finds  us  far  sever'd,  shall  affection  breathe 
Her  tribute  hence  for  thee,  and  fondly  wreathe 

Some  buds  of  love  thy  temples  to  adorn. 

Ah  !  would  around  thy  brow,  without  a  thorn 

My  skill  could  bid  them  bloom  !  That  wish,  how  vain  ! 
Yet  well  thou  know'st  the  Hand,  whence  every  pain 

Commission'd,  comes:  and,  by  that  Hand  upborne, 
Thy  spirit  fainteth  not.     Oh  !  o'er  thy  heart 

May  Power  Divine  its  strengthening-  mercies  shed  ! 
Be  near  in  all  thy  griefs,  and  still  impart 

Some  happier  hours  to  cluster  round  thy  head  ! 
And  may  it  yet  be  mine,  beneath  their  gentle  ray, 
To  cheer  with  filial  love,  thy  life's  declining  day  ! 


9* 


]02 


WRITTEN     AFTER    VISITING    THE    DIORAi/IIC     PAINTING    OF 


THE  DEPARTURE  OF  THE  ISRAELITES  OUT  OF  EGYPT." 


O  for  a  few  still  moments,  to  sit  down 

Amid  this  tracery  of  ages  past, 
And  pour  my  glowing  soul !     Unmark'd,  alone, 

To  breathe  the  rising  thoughts,  conceptions  vast 

And  new,  and  strange,  that  throng  and  kindle  fast, 
As  o'er  the  view,  Delight,  intensely,  strays  : 

Fearing,  lest  aught  the  radiant  charm  o'ercast ; 
Questioning,  with  its  own  enraptur'd  gaze, 
How  it  hath  hither  come,  and  what  it  here  surveys  ! 

'Tis  but  a  moment,  and  my  being's  date 

Was  elsewhere  :  now  a  spell  my  sense  enthralls  ; 

Thy  glory,  Memphis !  round  me  :  when  in  state 
Sat  Amenophis  'neath  his  kingly  halls  : 
Where  from  the  lofty  roofs  and  massive  walls, 

The  curving  marble  swells  in  sculpture  bold  ; 
And  incense  burns,  and  flatt'ry  prostrate  falls, 

And  crimson  drap'ries  droop  in  velvet  fold, 

Round  graceful  forms  of  life  all  gorgeously  enrolled. 


103 


Ye  palaces!  that  lift  your  heads  sublime  ! 

Pillars,  whose  mighty  frames  gigantic  rise  ! 
Mocking  the  stealthy  touch  of  treach'rous  Time, 

As  tho'  ye  might  survive  his  obsequies  ! 

Ye  temples  vast !  that  tower  in  lofty  guise  ! 
Ye  pyramids  !    that  reach  the  upper  heaven  ! 

Saw  Israel  these,  when  'neath  Egyptian  skies, 
From  out  the  land  by  Pharaoh's  mandate  driven, 
The  word — u  Rise  up  !  go  forth  !"'*  resistlessly  was  given  ? 


And  ye,  fair  obelisks  !  which,  calm  and  pale, 

'Mid  that  green  foliage  rise,  ascending  high 
In  spotless,  mild  magnificence, — all  hail  ! 

Ye  loveliest  forms  of  sculptured  dignity, 

Looking  so  meekly  up  into  the  sky 
As  if  ye  were  of  heaven  !  Though  to  my  view 

More  like  a  fabric  of  Eternity 
Stands  the  vast  pyramid,  a  gentler  hue 
Of  soften'd  grandeur  beams,  pillars  of  light !  from  you, 


Morning  ! — how  gloriously  the  break  of  day 
Falls  over  temple,  obelisk,  and  tower  ! 

While  her  swift-rolling  clouds,  in  masses  grey, 
A  flood  of  misty  radiance  seem  to  pour 
Down  on  that  far-spread  throng,  who,  led  of  yore, 

Still,  as  was  Peter  when  the  wave  he  trod, 

O'er  the  wide  plain  in  circling  thousands  pour; 

And  bend  their  onward  course  beneath  the  rod 

Of  Aaron  standing  high,  by  Him,  the  Man  of  God. 

*  Exodus  xx.  31. 


104 

And  is  it  all  illusion]   Do  I  gaze 

Only  upon  a  pageant  1    Can  it  be 
That  fascinated  sight,  unconscious  strays 

Entranced,  through  Painting's  wondrous  witchery? 

And  can  I  call  me  from  the  reverie 
Which  all. my  glowing  bosom  has  enshrin'd 

In  deep  forgetful ness,  and  wake,  to  see 
But  Art's  proud  triumph  o'er  the  eye  and  mind  1 
Thus  shall  the  vision  fade,  whose  charm  was  so  refin'd  1 


I  would  not  mar  its  glory. — I  would  deem, 

(And  well  shall  Fancy  cherish  the  deceit,) 
That  in  some  favor'd  hour,  some  fairy  dream, 

I  wing'd  aerial  way  on  pinions  fleet 

To  distant  ages  :  to  some  mighty  seat 
Of  greatness  pass'd  away  :   where  wonders  new 

Gave  to  life's  bounding  pulse  a  quicker  beat, 
Effaceless  lines  on  Mind's  bright  tablet  drew, 
And  plac'd  in  Memory's  book,  one  page  of  magic  hue. 


105 


"GOD     IS     OUR    REFUGE/— Psalm  xlvi.  6. 


Yes  !  He  is  "  a  refuge  :" — when  sadness  o'ercasts 
The  spirit  while  rock'd  on  this  world's  wintry  blasts, 
Still,  still  to  one  home  can  the  sorrowful  flee, 
And  lean  in  its  weakness,  Great  Guardian  !   on  Thee. 

Yes  !  He  is  "  a  refuge :" — though  tempests  may  roll 
In  darkness  and  cloud  o'er  the  wave-beaten  soul, 
Still,  turning  on  high,  through  the  gloom  it  can  see 
A  calm,  peaceful  dwelling,  Creator  !  in  Thee. 

Yes  !  He  is  "a  refuge  :" — worn,  weak,  and  alone, 
As  the  heart  bends  in  sadness  o'er  cares  all  its  own, 
It  feels,  still  belov'd  may  that  fainting  one  be, 
And  cared  for,  and  guided,  oh  !  Father !  by  Thee. 

Yes  !    He  is  "  a  refuge  :" — through  life's  chequer'd  day 
Thus  far  hath  one  pilgrim  still  prov'd  him  her  stay: 
And  oh  !   when  borne  over  Time's  billowy  sea, 
Be  her  refuge,  Eternal  Redeemer!  in  Thee! 


106 


WRITTEN     AFTER    SPENDING    A   FEW"    MINUTES    BEFORE    THE 

RESIDENCE  OF  MRS.   SIGOURNEY,  AT  HARTFORD,  CONN. 

Day's  fading,  yet  resplendent  charm, 

The  pale  moon  touch'd  with  gentler  hue, 

Beneath  whose  softly  blending  calm, 
Near  to  a  rural  home  I  drew : 
Each  clust'ring  shrub  which  round  it  grew, 

Spoke  to  my  heart  of  good  and  fair; 
For  Fancy  link'd  with  Feeling,  threw 

Brightness  on  all  that  circled  there. 

Beside  that  home,  what  magic  power 

With  secret  spell  delay'd  my  feet! 
Was  it  that  Genius  held  a  dower 

Of  her  own  gifts,  in  its  retreat 

That  made  my  warm  pulse  quicker  beat1? 
Not  solely  this:  I  might  have  stood 

Unmoved,  near  Talent's  loftiest  seat 
Whose  great  ones  were  not  of  the  good. 

But  there  was  one  within  that  spot 

Whose  page  of  beauty,  free  from  stain, 

Chose  for  itself  a  holy  lot, 

Brought  its  rich  wealth  to  Virtue's  fane : 


107 

Still  unseduc'd  by  wand'rings  vain, 
From  false  enchantments  ever  pure, 

Ne'er  wove  a  charm,  ne'er  pour'd  a  strain 
One  heart  from  truth  and  heaven  to  lure. 


And  when  I  knew  that  here  she  dwelt 

Whose  distant  lyre,  with  kindred  tone, 
My  bosom  oft  had  sweetly  felt 

Answering  each  cadence  of  its  own  ; 

So  long  to  thought  and  memory  known 
By  grateful  feeling's  rising  debt, 

How  could  I,  stranger,  and  alone, 
Pause  there,  nor  feel  one  vain  regret  1 

One  vain  regret, — the  stranger's  part 
Unmurmuring  too,  that  I  must  share, 

And  thence  resignedly  depart 

Nor  nearer  draw,  nor  wishful  dare 
To  seek  that  common  greeting  there, 

In  daily  life's  kind  sympathy 
To  many  given,  who  little  care 

For  Mind  with  Mind's  all-hallowing  tie. 

Oh  !  how  I  long'd  to  break  the  chain 

Of  cold  Formality's  stern  sway, 
Whose  iron  bands  so  oft  restrain 

The  heart  upon  its  ardent  way  ! 

It  might  not  be  :  I  could  not  stray 
From  custom's  canonized  control, 

Or  let  my  uncheck'd  step  betray 
The  lingering  impulse  of  my  soul. 


108 

I  turn'd  away :  yet  from  that  bower 

To  cherish,  and  to  look  upon, 
Silent  memorial  of  an  hour 

As  sweetly  bright  as  swiftly  flown, 

One  little  spray  I  made  my  own, 
Unmiss'd  'mid  sister  flowers  'twill  be ; 

Yet  it  has  language,  whose  low  tone 
In  thoughts  delightful  speaks  to  me. 

Encircled  now  by  other  days 

Which  life's  long-beaten  paths  restore, 
This  eve  to  retrospection's  gaze 

Seems  a  fled  vision,  seen,  and  o'er  : 

But,  when  remembrance  counts  her  lore, 
Whose  varied  gifts  my  bosom  thrill, 

Then,  'mid  the  gather'd  gems  of  yore, 
Its  memory  shall  be  lovely  still. 


109 


THE    PEN. 


The  Pen  !  the  Pen  !  oh  !  let  its  power  each  righteous  labor  aid  : 
And  as  upon  the  pure  white  page  its  tracery  is  laid, 
Ah  !  ever  let  it  trembling  shrink  to  leave  one  image  there, 
Whose  shadow,  at  lift's  cloning  hour,  thy  spirit  could  not  bear ! 

Amid  the  lively  social  scene,  by  gay  excitement  led, 

When  speaking  oft  a  wayward  thing  thou   soon  hast  wished 

unsaid, 
How  vainly  would  thy  lip  recall  the  foible  of  an  hour  ! 
The  day  once  past,  the  bird  once  flown,  what  magic  can  restore  1  * 
But,  if  remorse  should  ache  beneath  a. rash  or  guilty  word, 
Which  lightly  flitted  from  the  tongue  when  hasty  impulse  err'd, 
Will  not  its  keen  upbraiding  thrill  a  sorer,  sadder  smart 
Should  thought's  delib'rate  picturing  one  day  accuse  thy  heart! 
Shouldst  thou  cast  forth  upon  the  wave  of  all-surrounding  mind 
One  venture,  that  could  lead  astray  the  lowliest  of  thy  kind  ! 

The  Pen  !  the  Pen!    oh  !  hath  it  not  as  God's  creation  wide, 
Scope  where  its  labors  may  abound   to  virtue's  joy  and  pride  ? 


*  "  Who  can  recall  the  day  that  is  past,  the  bird  that  has  flown,  or  the  word, 
however  foolish,  that  has  once  escaped  the  lips."— John  Newton  to  Mrs. 
H.  More. 

10 


110 


It  needs  not  seek  a  wilderness  o'ergrown  with  moral  ill  ; 
For  there  are  fertile  fields  of  good  which  it  may  range  at  will  : 
Nor  asks  it  utt'rance  light  and  vain  of  wild  romance,  to  move 
The  hearts  intensely  beating  still  to  truth  and  nature's  love. 

While  glows  the  brightness  of  a  world  by  power  Divine  array'd, 
While  smiles  its  varied  loveliness  in  mingled  light  and  shade; 
While  spreads  the  crimson-tinted  cloud,  which  waves  the  leafy 

tree, 
While  voices  sound  from  earth  to  air,  in  grateful  melody  ; 
While  dawns  the  morn,  while  fades  the  eve,  while  beams  the 

calm,  still  moon, 
While  rises  the  dense  thunder-cloud  upon  a  summer  noon  ; 
While  bleed  the  woes  of  human-kind  before  the  tortur'd  eye, 
While  roll  the  waves  of  guilt  and  sin  shall  fearless — wild — 

and  high  ; 
While  worshipp'd  Fashion  needs  a  check  to  stay  its  tyrant  tide, 
While  modest  Worth  lies  trampled  down  by  low  ignoble  Pride  ; 
While  gentle  thoughts  are  comforters  to  all  whose  hearts  they 

reach, 
While  one  good  word  remains  to  speak,  one  lesson  pure  to  teach  ; 
So  long,  O  Pen!  thy  buoyant  way  is  blessed  as  'tis  free, 
Upon  a  glorious  pilgrimage  which  God  hath  mark'd  for  thee. 
Then  onward — onward  on  thy  course  ! — with  might  that  He 

hath  giv'n, 
Do  what  thou  canst,  say  what  thou  wilt,  for  Virtue  and  for 

Heav'n  ! 
And,  like  the  bread  of  olden  time  upon  wide  waters  cast, 
The  scattering  hand  may  reap  its  toil  when  many  days  are  past  ! 


Ill 


WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SHORT  INTERVIEW  WITH 
MISS    DOROTHEA    L    DIX. 


Friend  of  a  woe  that  no  plummet  hath  sounded  ! 
Friend  to  the  bosoms  mysteriously  wounded  ! 
Fearful  and  awful   thy  mission  for  these, 
To  woman's  mild  nature, — the  soul's  love  of  ease  : 
Yet  onward,  oh  sister!  God's  angels  stand  round  thee  ! 
Blessing  the  bonds  with  which  Duty  hath  bound  thee  ! 
Onward  !  thy  footsteps  "  a  convoy  attends, 
"  A  ministering  host  of  invisible  friends  !" 


Oh  !  when  thy  Master  shall  call  thee  to  Him, 

Where  no  heart  acheth  more — where  no  mind  groweth  dim, 

Who,  who  can  tell  what  pure  spirits  may  meet  thee, 

Welcome  thy  coming,  and  gratefully  greet  thee  ! 

Who,  who  can  tell  the  full  hearts  there  may  be, 

That,  next  to  their  Saviour,  will  joy  to  know  thee ! 


112 


GENIUS    AND    FEELING. 


High  upon  a  mountain  summit,  sounding  with  a  silver  plummet 
All  the  dang'rous  depth  beneath    her, — or,  with  fix'd    and 
earnest  gaze 
O'er  the  boundless  distance  straying,  beauty's  pictured  forms 
surveying 
'Mid  blue  hills  seen  tall  and  dimly  through  the  pale,  thin 
morning  haze  : 

Cheek  all  glow  and  step  all  sprightly,  foot  from  earth's  dust 
springing  lightly, 
Heart  with  quenchless  fever   burning  for  a  conquest  and  a 
throne : 
Pulse  with  ceaseless  tension  beating,  eye  each  cloud-capt  land- 
scape greeting, 
"  Not  one  torpid  nerve"  within   her, — Genius  stands — and 
stands  alone. 

Down  among   the  moss-beds  sinking,  from   the   rough  winds 
round  her  shrinking, 
Wounded  by  the  thorn  and  bramble  with  her  fav'rite  wild 
flow'rs  twined  : 
On  her  pale  and  aching  bosom  wearing  many  a  faded  blossom, 
Fearing  lest  the  harsh  and  prying  should  her  little  shelter 
find: 


113 

At  her  own  wan  shadow  trembling,  yet  how  well  each  throb 
dissembling 
Of  that  spirit's  keen  sensation,  from  the  cold  crowd  round 
her  thrown : 
O'er   her   wither'd     garlands   bending    in   the    golden  day's 
descending, 
Smiling  now — and  now  all  tearful !  Feeling  sits — and   sits 
alone. 


Hands  all  torn  and  feet  all  aching,  lo  !  her  heart  is  bruis'd  and 
breaking, 
As  she  faintly  strives  to  follow,  as  she  fondly  tries  to  share 
Her  proud  path,  who,  each  storm    breasting,  seeks  on  earth's 
soil  scarce  a  resting, 
Finds  on  earth's  sod  scarce  a  welcome  for  what  she  would 
do  or  dare. 

One  the  mountain's  high  crag  scaling,  one  beneath  the  light 
blast  failing, 

Sisters  lovely,  twin,  and  loving  !  can  ye  then  not  dwell  apart  ] 
No  :  in  weal,  in  woe,  forever  link'd  by  ties  no  hand  may  sever, 

Undivided  are  ye  clinging,  hand  to  hand,  and  heart  to  heart. 

Genius  !  check  each  daring  sally  :  down  again  in   life's  low 
valley 
Still  by  her,  thy   trembling  treasure,  must  thou  stay   from 
morn  till  even  : 
Still  that  sister's  footsteps  sharing,  still    that  sister's  burdens 
bearing, 
God  hath  join'd — and  who  may   part   you  1   pilgrims  to  a 
higher  heaven. 

10* 


114 

Oh!   how    gladly — Genius!    Feeling! — from  this   life's  cold 
converse  stealing, 
Would  ye  ever  seek  your  pathway  with  the  good — the  pure 
— the  few  ! 
Yet  beyond  where  stars  are  gleaming, — in  a  land  where  bliss 
is  beaming, 
There,  if  He  hath  been  your  glory,  is  a  world — a  home — 
for  you. 


INACTIVITY. 


Oh  !  Inactivity  !    thou  silent  foe 

Of  progress  bright!  thou  softly-stealing  power 
Whose  twinings  scarce  are  felt,  till  closely  riven ! 
Why  do  thy  chills  creep  o'er  the  virtuous  glow, 

Steal  from  pursuit  the  ne'er  returning  hour, 
And  stay  the  spirit  in  Improvement's  heav'n  ? 
Come,  vig'rous  Purpose  !  Resolution  !  come! 

Repel  the  soft  intruder  :  bid  the  soul 

Its  first-felt  enterings  guard  with  firm  control, 
And  tell  the  pilferer — '  here  is  not  thy  home  !' 

Then  may  the  mind  in  high  attainment  rise  : 
And  check'd  by  nought,  each  vast  exertive  power, 

Ascend  thro'  purer  airs,  and  brighter  skies, 
In  fair  progression  rising  evermore  ! 


115 


THE    PHARISEE    AND    PUBLICAN. 

LUKE    XVIII.    10-14. 

Up  to  the  temple's  hallowed  court, 

As  bidden  weekly  to  resort, 

Came  hastening,  with  devotion's  plea, 

The  Publican  and  Pharisee. 

One  with  the  chilling  frown  of  pride 

Glanced  on  the  brother  at  his  side, 

(A  fellow-heir  of  hopes  above, 

An  equal  in  the  Eye  of  Love,) 

As  though  he  were  not  meet  to  bring 

To  the  same  throne  his  offering. 

He  stood  apart,  with  lofty  air 
Ev'n  in  the  domicile  of  prayer  : 
No  humble  suit  had  he  to  raise, 
No  grateful  vow,  no  holy  praise  ; 
No  wounded  heart  to  seek  a  balm 
In  meek  devotion's  soothing  calm  ; 
No  tear  of  penitence  to  fall 
O'er  mercies  given,  and  wasted  all  : — 
No  !  his  was  pride's  complacent  voice 
In  selfs  high  glory  to  rejoice  ; 


IK) 

Its  gifts,  its  merits  there  to  plead 
And  proudly  ask  for  virtue's  meed  ; 
Triumphing  with  exulting  breast, 
In  treasury  of  worth  possess'd. 


But  yet  there  was  a  suppliant  near, 

Who  came  to  breathe  in  Mercy's  ear, 

The  welcome  incense  of  a  heart 

That  sought  a  holier — better  part. 

There  was  a  voice  that  trembling  stole 

Deep  from  an  humble,  contrite  soul, 

And  only  raised  the  ardent  plea 

Of  helplessness  and  misery. 

Blest  was  that  voice  ! — it  brought  from  heaven 

The  answer  down,  of  sins  forgiven  ! 


117 


A  SABBATH  KECOLLECTION  OF  A  DEPARTED  FRIEND. 


Thou  art  not  in  the  home,  where  once  thy  hand 
Its  welcome  proffer'd,  and  its  kindness  shed  ; 

Thou  art  not  with  the  little  social  band  ; 

From  them  thy  smile,  thy  voice,  thy  step  are  fled  : 

Thou  wert  not  in  the  house  of  God  to-day, 
As  thou  were  wont  to  be  with  duteous  care : 

The  Sabbath  comes  and  goes — thou  art  away  ; 

"  Where  art  thou,  where  !" 

There  is  a  social  band  of  holy  love, 

Whose  countless  hours  to  seraph  joys  are  given: 
There  is  another  home, — a  home  above, 

World  of  the  good  and  pure  ! — Its  name  is  Heaven 
There  is  a  house  of  God  where  never  tires 

The  soul  of  praise: — in  "bliss  beyond  compare" 
With  spirits  of  the  just,  'mid  angel  choirs, 

There  art  thou, — there! 


118 


TO    THE    LYRE. 


O  !  whither  hath  the  fleeting  skill  departed 

Which  once  was  mine  to  wake  the  simple  lyre  ? 

Age  hath  not  met  me  yet,  to  chill  the  fire 
Of  ardent  thought,  nor  cold  and  frozen-hearted 

Have  this  world's  cares  left  my  yet  youthful  soul : 
Yet  can  I  not  as  once,  with  ready  power, 

The  vivid  wreath  of  thoughts  and  feelings  twine 
From  changeful  colors  of  the  passing  hour, 

Or  nature's  glories,  boundless,  and  divine  : 
Why  com' st  thou  not,  oh  Lyre!  at  my  control 

As  thou  didst  come  to  me  in  life's  first  morning'? 
O  yet  return  !  and  let  thy  deeper  lays 

With  tints  of  beauty  Time's  dark  shades  adorning, 
Wake  the  sweet  melody  of  grateful  praise ! 


iii) 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A  CHILD  THREE  YEARS  OLD. 

WRITTEN    FOR    HER    MOTHER. 

Go,  thou  little  gentle  one  ! 

Spar'd  the  cross,  thy  crown  is  won. 

Thou  wert  very  sweet  to  me 

In  thy  tender  infancy, 

As,  within  thy  nurse's  arm, 

(Shelt'ring  fold  to  thee  from  harm,) 

Did  thy  meekly  beaming  smile 

Round  us  throw  its  pleasant  wile. 

Go,  thou  little  gentle  one  ! 

Spar'd  the  cross,  thy  crown  is  won. 

Asking  thought  would  follow  thee 

To  thy  new  felicity. 

How,  in  angel-home  enshrined, 

Lives  and  acts  thy  little  mind  ] 

Is  an  infant's  joy  its  oum, 

Or  like  others  round  the  Throne1? 

This  we  know  not :   but  we  know 

Thou  art  happier  than  below  : 

Happier1?  it  is  shadeless  bliss 

Where  a  ransom'd  spirit  is. 


[20 

Now,  not  one  of  childhood's  ills 
Through  that,  little  bosom  thrills. 
Nor  can  aught  maturer  life- 
Brings  the  heart  of  fearful  strife, 
Dimming  grief,  or  aching  care, — 
Evermore  find  entrance  there. 
Oh  !  how  sweet  that  perfect  peace 
Which  shall  never — never  cease  ! 
Oh  !  how  blest  that  home  of  hearts 
Whence  no  lov'd  one  e'er  departs  ! 

Little  gentle  one  ! — with  thee 
Where  thou  art,  may  we  too  be  ! 
We  have  yet  to  pass  the  grave, 
Yet  to  cross  the  swelling  wave  ; 
And  we  need,  Almighty  Power ! 
Strengthening  grace  for  dying  hour. 
Grant,  that  not  in  pains  of  death, 
In  poor  nature's  failing  breath, 
We,  at  earth's  last  strife,  may  be 
Left  to  fall,  O  Lord  !  from  Thee  ! 


121 


INTELLECTUAL    RESPONSIBILITY. 


I  ever  felt  that  God  was  near 

When-e'er  I  took  the  pen  ; 
I  ever  felt  a  sacred  fear 

To  use  its  benizon, 
So  that  one  heart  might  draw  a  thought 
From  aught  it  dropp'd,  with  error  fraught ; 
So  lightly,  or  so  recklessly, 
That  He  should  frown  as  He  pass'd  by. 

But  yet  in  youth  and  health's  first  hour 
I  sometimes  wrote  to  please  ; 

A  passing  fancy's  scented  flower 
To  gather  at  my  ease . 

On  fabled  Heliconian  brink 

To  sit,  and  carelessly  to  drink, 

Or  bind  a  chaplet  for  my  brow  ; 

Frail  blossoms  !   fall'n  and  wither'd  now. 


Yet,  since  those  gayer  hours  have  flown, 

And  drooping  oft,  I  stand 
In  nearer  view  of  things  unknown, 

Things  of  the  spirit-land  ; 
II 


122 

Oh  !  how  I  pant  to  make  its  power 
More  conscience-guarded  than  before. 
To  use  its  strength  so  reverently, 
That  He  may  smile  in  passing  by. 

For  Him — His  word — His  will — His  laws, 

With  fervency  to  speak  ; 
His  church's  and  His  children's  cause, 

The  suffering  oft,  and  weak  : — 
O  !  never  may  I  write  a  line, 
Never  in  words  one  thought  enshrine, 
Which  He,  approving,  might  not  guide, 
Which  bows  not  to  the  Crucified! 


STANZAS. 

"And  holy  men  give  Scripture  for  the  deed."— Campbell. 

O  God  !  unseal  my  ears,  unclose  my  eyes, 

The  depth  of  this  sad  mystery  to  see, 
Why  on  earth's  soil  Thy  trodden  creature  lies, 

Toiling  and  suffering  for  the  proud  and  free 

In  helpless,  hopeless,  hard  captivity  1 
A  soul,  which  with  Immortal  Being  links, 

Crush'd,  in  its  poor  frame's  abject  misery  ! 
Or,  happiest,  happy  like  the  worm  that  shrinks 
Beneath  the  passer's  foot,  and  hides  in  earth,  and  sinks  ! 


Father !  Thou  Just  and  Good  !  — and  can  it  be 

One  heart  should  read  Thy  Gospel  so  amiss, 
That,  of  Thy  holy  will  in  mockery, 

A  passport  from  its  page  is  ask'd  for  this  ? 
Blind,  and  in  love  with  dark  unrighteousness, 
Sophists!  to  God  and  man  alike  untrue 

O'er  whom  good  angels  weep  ! — Can  ye  be  His 
Who  make  His  truth  a  lie  ? — Yet  ev'n  for  you 
Perchance,   the  Saviour  pleads, — "They  know  not  what  they 
do!" 


VERSES,  WRITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 


'•What !  shall  we  run  to  gain  the  crown, 
Yet  grieve  to  think  the  goal  so  near  I 
Afraid  to  have  our  labors  done, 
And  finish  this  important  war-?" 


No  : — not  "  to  think  the  goal  so  near," 
Doth  feeling  shrink,  or  sorrow  grieve  ; 

No  :  — not  to  close  life's  various  war, 
And  its  short  day  of  labor  leave  : 

'Tis  not  that  earth  so  fair  appears, 

That  heaven's  bright  joys  but  dimly  glow 

'Tis  not,  that  aught  so  much  endears 
The  fleeting  hues  of  things  below  : 


124 

But  'tis  that  conscience  looks  within. 
Seeking  to  test  her  hope  of  heaven  ; 

There  roams  through  changing  forms  of  sin, 
And  trembling  asks — "  .fire  these  forgiven?''1 

Are  these  forgiven'? — this  faithless  heart, 
So  prone  to  wander  from  its  Lord  ] 

These  footsteps  treach'rous  to  depart, 
And  leave  the  pathway  of  His  word  1 

Are  these  forgiv'n  1 — this  latent  pride, 
This  slothful  soul — this  stubborn  will1? 

These  sins  that  yet  so  close  abide, 
So  cherish'd — ev'n  when  hated  still? 


Are  these  forgiv'n  1 — then  may  my  soul 
With  rapture  wing  her  upward  way  : 

And,  joyful,  spring  from  earth's  control, 
To  heaven's  serene,  eternal  day. 


Yes :  she  would  hail  the  happy  hour 

Which  breaks  the  ling'ring  chains  of  sin, 

Takes  from  this  evil^world  its  power, 
And  ends  the  feeble  strife  within. 


Oh  !  if  for  me  thy  hand,  my  God  ! 

Decree  that  soon  this  strife  shall  close, 
And  that  last  dim,  dark  path  be  trod, 

Whose  deep  result  no  mortal  knows; 


125 

How  shall  I  meet  thy  searching  Eye? 

How  stand  before  Thy  bar,  and  live? 
For  my  one  talent's  poor  employ 

To  Thee  what  tribute  shall  I  give  1 

What  can  I  plead  for  follies  past  ] 
For  countless  sins  of  years  gone  by  1 

Oh  !  what  peace-offering  bring  at  last 
Before  Thine  awful  Purity  1 

One  thought  alone — one  hope,  sustains 
My  sinking  soul  beneath  her  load  ; 

A  Saviour  died  !  that  Saviour  reigns 
To  plead  the  sinner's  cause  with  God. 

Welcome,  thou  latest,  only  hope ! 

Here  would  my  trembling  spirit  rest ; 
Here  would  it  place  its  dying  prop, 

Redeemer!  on  Thy  pitying  breast. 

To  Thee  I  raise  my  suppliant  cry  ; 

Oh  !  when  Thy  will  that  hour  shall  bring, 
Spoil  Thou  the  grave's  dread  victory, 

Pluck  Thou  from  death  its  fearful  sting! 


12(5 


THE    EIGHTY    FLOWERS. 


[Esther  Pierce,  a  pale  consumptive-looking  girl,  was  employed  by  an  indi- 
vidual in  Cheapside  to  embroider  a  silk  shawl  with  no  less  than  eighty  silken 
blossoms,  for  the  sum  of  sixpence.  Famine  drove  her  with  it  to  the  pawn- 
broker's.]— London  Times,  Nov.  1844. 


This  is  thy  justice,  Britain!  — 

Ah  !  speak  no  more  of  us ! 
Are  taunts  from  you  befitting, 

Who  treat  your  pale  ones  thus  1 
What  if  no  chain  is  lying 

Upon  that  thin,  worn  hand, — 
What  if  no  scourge  is  plying 

At  overseer's  command, — 
How  little — little  better 
Than  scourge — and  whip — and  fetter, 
To  draw  her  tortured  breath 
Thus  in  Toil's  daily  death  ! 

Ye  have  no  slaves, — ye  tell  us  : — 
"No  slaves'?" — and  who  are  those 

Whose  tales  of  wrong  thus  swell  us 
With  deep  indignant  throes  1 


127 

"  No  slaves,"  alas! — to  whom 

Sweet  Freedom's  hourly  price, 
Unceasing  Labor's  gloom, 

For  bread — can  scarce  suffice1? 
"  No  slaves  ?" — and  what  are  they 

Who  late  and  early  strive, 
Yet  strive  thus  hopelessly, 

For  ways  and  means — to  live! 

Deep  is  the  guilt  that  rests 
On  us,  o'er  western  waters 
Tow'rd  Afric's  sons  and  daughters  ! 

Yet,  when  your  feeling  breasts 
Mourn  for  our  slaves  of  sable, 
Ah  !    sometimes  turn  the  table 
And  glance,  'neath  British  skies, 
On  human  injuries! 

For  woes  ye  need  not  cater, 
For  guilt  ye  need  not  roam  : 

Turn,  Afric's  liberator 

O'er  distant  evils  sighing  : 
Turn  to  the  wrong'd,  the  dying 
The  famish'd  hosts — at  Home  ! 


128 


THE  BUTTERFLY'S  APPEAL. 


WRITTEN    BY   REQUEST,  TO   ACCOMPANY   SOME   BUTTERFLY   PENWIPERS    MADE 
FOR    AN    ANTI-SLAVERY    FAIR    AT   CHRISTMAS. 


I  am  not  wont  to  flutter  and  play 
In  the  bleak,  cold  smile  of  a  winter's  day  ; 
An  alien  I  seem,  in  a  clime  so  drear; 
What  gentle  errand  has  brought  me  here  ] 

I  come,  to  bear  to  the  heart  and  eye 

An  image  of  joyous  liberty  ; 

To  waken  a  thought  of  the  sweet  spring-time 

When  Nature  puts  forth  in  her  promise  and  prime  ; 

When  bird  and  insect  are  soaring  away 

In  the  soft  light  breeze,  and  the  kindling  ray  ; 

And  each  living  thing  rejoices  to  bear 

Its  part  in  a  world  so  blessed  and  fair! 

Oh  !  thus,  when  my  glowing  and  outspread  wings 
Bring  to  mind  all  gladsome  and  happy  things 
In  the  broad  bright  meadows  and  boundless  woods, 
In  the  freedom  of  hills,  and  skies,  and  floods, 
Then  think  that  in  bonds  and  in  sadness  lying, 
A  human  brother  is  hopelessly  sighing 


129 

With  the  crushed-down  soul,  and  the  manacled  limb,- 

And  turn,  to  pity  and  feel  for  him! 

For  him  that  blue  heaven  is  scarcely  bright, 

To  him  the  spread  wing  is  a  saddening  sight; 

For  humbler,  meaner  creatures  are  free 

In  God's  wide  creation, — and  why  not  he  1 

Oh  !  if  for  him,  to  whom  freedom  seems 
Only  as  fairy-land  in  dreams, 
I  wake  one  impulse,  whose  bidding  would  fain 
Unloose  the  fetter  and  break  the  chain, — 
That  the  errand  was  idle  ye  will  not  say 
Which  brought  me  here  on  a  winter's  day. 


HYMN. 


1  want  to  feel  as  I  shall  feel 
When  time  has  nearly  run, 

And  cloud-like  tokens  gently  steal 
Over  life's  setting  sun. 

I  want  to  feel  as  I  shall  feel 

When,  from  time's  shelving  shore, 

Spirits  unseen  the  forms  reveal 
Of  things  that  lie  before. 


130 

I  want  to  feel  as  I  shall  feel, 
When,  near  God's  solemn  bar, 

Nor  forms  nnr  mists  of  earth  conceal 
Truths  as  they  truly  are. 

I  want  to  feel  as  I  shall  feel 
When  Heaven  is  very  near : 

Wilt  Thou  then  meet  my  soul's  appeal  1 
Wilt  Thou,  my  Lord  !  he  here] 

O  !  grant  this  prayer  ! — howe'er  till  then 

My  various  path  be  cast 
As  joy's  or  sorrow's  denizen, — 

Desert  me  not — at  last ! 


AN    INQUIRY. 


"Why  arl  tlion  cast  down,  O  my  soul  1  and  why  art  thou  disquieted  within 
me  ?  Hope  thou  in  God  :  for  I  shall  yet  praise  Him,  who  is  the  health  of  my 
countenance,  and  my  God  " — Psalm  xlii   11. 


Ah  !    whence  this  sadness  ]     Is  thy  path 

A  waste  unbless'd  by  flowers, 
Where  howls  the  tempest's  blighting  wrath 

Round  its  forsaken  bovvers'? 


l:*l 


No  :    many  a  plant  of  peaceful  bloom 
That  chequer'd  path  adorns, 

Sheds  o'er  thy  heart  its  mild  perfume, 
And  smiles  above  the  storms. 


Ah  !  whence  this  sadness  1  Art  thou  here 

A  sojourner  alone 
Whom  no  kind  being  cares  to  cheer 

With  soft  affection's  tone  ] 


No  :  those  there  are  whose  voice  benign 

Still  sweetly  sounds  for  thee  ; 
Whose  beaming  eye  yet  turns  on  thine 

In  friendship's  sympathy. 

Whence  then  this  dull,  this  mournful  maze 

Which  clouds  thy  drooping  soul, 
When  Heaven's  kind  gifts  should  crown  with  praise 

The  moments  as  they  roll  1 

Ah  !  deeper  probe  the  wounded  part, 

Though  conscience  arm  her  rod  ! 
Art  thou  not,  wand'ring,  wayward  heart, 

A  recreant  from  thy  God  1 


Doth  there  not  dim  thy  bosom's  sky, 

A  dark,  a  fearful  cloud 
Rear'd  by  thine  own  iniquity, 

Thy  Father's  face  to  shroud  1 


132 

Is  it  that  deep  conviction  mourns 
The  cold,  the  languid  frame, 

And  fears  this  feeble  spirit  learns 
The  Christian — but  in  name? 


0  !  then,  no  gifts  that  earth  may  bring, 
Thy  heart's  deep  gloom  can  cheer  ; 

Nor  waken  hope's  reviving  spring, 
Nor  dry  dejection's  tear. 

But,  feeble  mourner,  turn,  and  bend 
Where  powerful  aid  is  given  : 

For  comfort's  balm  may  yet  descend 
On  healing  wings  from  heaven. 

Yes  :  fear  not,  humbled  there,  to  plead 
Thy  weakness,  want,  and  woe : 

Help  in  this  hour  of  fainting  need 
His  mercy  may  bestow. 

Lord!    in  Thy  hand  is  comfort's  spring  : 

Oh  !  send  the  kind  relief! 
And  this  sad  heart  shall  wake  to  sing 

Thy  grace  in  deepest  grief. 


133 


ST.  JOHN'S    CHURCH,    SALEM,  N.J. 

[The  old  church  being  pulled  down  for  the  erection  of  a  new  one  ] 

AFFECTIONATELY    INSCRIBED    TO    M      D. 

When  last  the  Sabbath  faded 

Beneath  meek  twilight's  ray. 
Whose  soft'ning  lustre  shaded 

The  scenes  of  falling  day, 
To  Heaven's  blue  peaceful  dwelling 

The  village  church  arose, 
Its  taper  spire  still  telling 

Of  worship  and  repose. 

Through  the  arch'd  windows  glowing-, 

Mild  shone  the  astral  beam. 
O'er  circling  foliage  throwing 

A  bright,  but  chasten'd  gleam  : 
While  from  its  low  roof  blending 

In  deep  and  holy  lays, 
The  organ's  peal  ascending, 

Met  voices  sweet,  in  praise. 
12 


134 

'Tis  Sabbath  eve,  returning  ! 

Ah  !    gaze  upon  the  scene  ! 
The  altar's  fire  is  burning, 

But  not  where  it  hath  been. 
Sad  ruin's  hand  is  wreaking 

Its  mournful  work  around  ; 
Cold  to  the  bosom  speaking 

Of  desecrated  ground. 


And  what  if  soon  appearing, 

A  goodlier  fane  shall  rise, 
More  proudly,  nobly  rearing 

Its  bulwark  to  the  skies  1 
Can  it  from  memory's  tracing 

Blot  out  each  tender  thought, 
The  outline  lov'd  effacing 

Which  was — and  now  is  not  ] 

Ah!  no! — though  loftier,  fairer 

Perchance,  to  casual  eye, — 
It  will  not  be  the  bearer 

Of  thought,  through  years  gone  by 
It  will  not  tell  the  story 

This  fallen  fabric  told, 
Of  sires,  and  patriarchs  hoary, 

Who  rear'd  it  from  the  mould. 

It  will  not  lead  fond  feeling 
Back,  back  to  days  of  yore, 

When  lov'd  ones  here  were  kneeling 
Who  kneel  on  earth  no  more : 


135 

It  will  not  be  the  altar 

Where  first  that  vow  was  given, 
Which  on  the  lip  might  falter, 

Yet  angels  heard — in  heaven. 


Oh  !  then,  like  those  in  story* 

Who  wept,  and  turn'd  to  sigh, 
Tho'  a  new  Temple's  glory 

Arose  to  meet  their  eye  ; 
That  temple  may  we  cherish, 

Yet  in  our  hearts  be  nurs'd 
Ne'er,  ne'er  from  thence  to  per'sh,- 

Remembrance  of  the  first ! 


LINES 

WRITTEN    AFTER   READING   SOME    VERY    FINE   POETRY. 

It  was  not  made  for  me.    That  thrilling  power 
Which  calls  at  will,  from  masses  of  rich  thought 
The  rainbow  dies  of  loveliness,  to  pour 
Where-e'er  they  rest,  the  flood  of  vivid  light 
That  bathes  the  soul  in  poesy's  own  fount, — 

*  Ezra  iii.  12. 


1:36 


This  was  not  given  to  me.     Yet  I  can  take 
My  own  more  simple  lyre,  and  tune  its  lay 
Unlike  to  these  indeed,  yet  to  my  ear 
Not  quite  discordant.     Therefore  will  I  love 
That  simple  lyre  :  nor  murmur  much  nor  grieve, 
That  hid  beneath  its  tones,  lies  not  the  spell 
Of  deep,  intenser  power  ;  no  charm  to  call 
The  heart's  warm  pulses  into  quicker  life  ; 
To  pale,  alternate,  or  to  flush  the  cheek 
Beneath  its  mighty  sway  :  that  round  it  float 
No  glorious  clouds  of  radiance,  burning  bright 
In  hues  that  seem  not  earth's. 

Yet  would  I  ask 
For  this  my  lyre  belov'd,  one  benizon. 
That,  like  its  "  mighty  masters,"  still  attuned 
To  Truth's  pure  accents,  Virtue's  holy  glow, 
Its  numbers  may  flow  on  :  blest,  if  they  wake 
In  here  and  there  a  heart  of  kindred  mould 
The  answering  sympathy,  the  echo  touch'd 
Not  unreluctant  in  a  feeling  breast. 
As  from  the  sunset  glories,  when  we  turn, 
(Our  vision  aching  with  the  bright  excess,) 
To  pale,  calm  moonlight, — tho'  the  radiant  spell 
That  flush'd  the  glowing  firmament,  is  past, 
The  glory  has  gone  by,  and  all  remains 
Unthrilling,  passionless, — yet  this  can  please, 
Can  sometimes  soothe,  can  calm  a  troubled  breast, 
Can  wake  a  gentle  joy  ;  and  some  may  love  it ; 
It  too,  though  faint,  is  light  that  beams  from  Heaven. 


137 


MODERN    IMPROVEMENTS. 


In  former  times,  to  church  and   poor  we  gave  what  we  could 

spare 
In  quiet  way  :  for  then,  you  know,  we  had  not  seen  a  fair : 
Now  we  are  wiser  grown  ;  we  call  Invention  to  our  aid, 
And  Duty  seldom  fails  to  please,  in  Fashion's  garh  array'd. 
We  scarcely  know  sweet  Charity;  so  splendid  has  she  grown, 
No  wonder  you  mistook   her  form, — she  would  not  know  her 

own. 
Gay  sparkles  as  enchanted  ground  the  bright  and  crowded  room. 
The  lively,  silly  speech  goes  round,  the  peals  of  laughter  come. 
Amid  the  jest,  the  crowd,  the  glare,  the  mirthful,  giddy  din, 
Perchance  the  thought  intrudes,  is  this  where  christians  enter  in  ? 
But  causeless  were  your  rising  blush  of  slightly-whisp'ring 

shame; 
'Twas  but  the  Lord  of  Hosts  to  serve  this  people  hither  came. 

In  former  times,  in  good  old  days,  we  lifted  heart  and  voice, 
And  in  the  sanctuary  made  our  souls  in  God  rejoice  : 
It  might  have  been  in  simple  strains  or  homely  music  quite, 
But  yet,  as  pious  Sternhold  saith,  it  was  "  with  all  our  might." 
Now  see  a  group  of  beaux  and  belles  the  special  honor  take 
To  sound  God's  praise  within  his  walls  by  proxy  for  our  sake  ; 
12* 


138 


And  see  a  listening  people  sit,  unworthy  quite  to  bear 

A  part  in  worship  thus  adorn'd  with  scientific  care. 

It  would  offend  a  cultur'd  taste,  should  such  presume  to  join 

Their  discords  harsh  in  notes  like  these  before  the  ear  Divine. 

Oh  !  give  to  me  those  good  old  days  when  in  the  temple  blest, 

One  song  went  up  of  fervent  praise  from  people  and  from  priest ! 

And    we   ourselves    might  aid   the    strain,  nor    deem   that    it 

would  do 
To  hear  rehearsals  once  a  week  by  a  selected  few  ! 


It   once    was  thought  that  He  alone  who   fills    the  height   of 

heaven, 
Could  read  the  secrets  of  a  heart  whose  pulse  by  Him  was 

given  : 
But  now  a  creeping  worm  of  earth  can  by  a  wond'rous  spell 
Command  a  passive  fellow-worm  these  hidden  things  to  tell  : 
And  present  be  in  distant  space,  see  what  it  ne'er  hath  seen, 
Hear  what  it  ne'er  hath  heard  and  gaze  where  oceans  intervene  : 
Right  onward  is  the  march  of  mind  !  you  sure  would  scarcely 

know 
Such  mighty  things  as  these  could  be  some  fifty  years  ago  ; 
Nor  deem  that  earthly  hands  with  power  not  giv'n  to  Aaron's 

rod, 
Could  magnetize  away,  for  man,  His  attributes  from  God.' 

In  former  times,  in  darker  days,  over  our  books  we  hung, 
Nor  thought  that  knowledge  deep  which  play'd  "  trippingly  on 

the  tongue." 
Now  see  the  "  spruce  philosopher"  of  twenty  or  sixteen 
Deeper  in  lore  than  such  as  these  e'er  thought  themselves,  I 

ween. 


139 

For  he  can  tell  the  latent  springs  from  whence  your  actions  flow, 
And  if  the  fiery  passions  burn,  or  gentler  feelings  glow: 
Or  taste  and  science  be  your  forte,  or  if  your  ready  wit 
With  ever-present  repartee  can  each  occasion  fit : 
Or  if  your  thoughts  be  clear  and  bright,  and  you  can  promptly 

call 
Those  thoughts  to  come  at  nod  and  will;  or,  if  you've  none 

at  all. 
Say,  notes  he  well  your  acts,  or  words,  such  secrets  to  discern  1 
Indeed,  not  he! — a  touch  conveys  all  he  would  wish  to  learn. 
You  cannot  hide  from  such  a  test,  but,  bidding  pride  adieu, 
Must  meekly,  silently  believe  each  strange  disclosure  true. 
But  Language  fails,  for  that  (they  say,)  is  somewhat  "small" 

in  me, 
To  justify  thy  wond'rous  art,  divine  Phrenology  ! 

I  would  not  mar  the  various  good  that  brightens  modern  days, 
Nor  throw  th'   unkindly    ridicule,   where  should   be  render'd 

praise  : 
Much,  much  have  we  to  glory  in,  nor  should  we  mend  our  track 
By  treading,  step  by  step  again,  a  generation  back  : 
The  heart  and  mind  may  well  rejoice  in  each  advancing  light 
Which  makes  the  path  of  duty  broad,  the  way  of  knowledge 

bright. 
Yet  have  I  wish'd  the  honor'd  bounds  of  truth  and  sober  sense 
Were  more,  around  the  march  of  mind  a  glory  and  defence  : 
And  in  our  charities,  our  shows,  have  sometimes  thought  of  this, 
That  we,  perchance,  unwittingly,  were  "  praising  God  amiss."* 
Forgive  the  well-meant  satire  then,  nor  let  its  harmless  dart 
Awake  one  angry  passion's  wrath,  nor  wound  one  feeling  heart. 

*  Comus. 


140 


THE    MOTHER    OF    THE    GRACCHI. 


The  casket  spread  its  glowing  blaze 
Of  massive  splendour  to  her  gaze. 
Commingling  there  in  softest  hue 
Lay  topaz  fair,  and  sapphire  blue  ; 
Rich  garnet  pour'd  its  crimson  light, 
Pale  amethyst,  serenely  bright; 
And  mildly  shone  the  purest  ray 
Of  clust'ring  pearl's  unsullied  spray; 
While  emerald,  in  deepest  gleam 
Blended  with  diamond's  radiant  beam, 
Upon  the  dazzled  sight  to  pour 
A  glittering  pile  of  useless  store, 
Where  all  combined  to  feed  the  eye 
And  empty  heart, — of  vanity. 

Cornelia  saw  :  but  not  for  her 
Could  these  a  single  charm  prefer  : 
A  brighter  tale  her  fancy  told 
Than  ever  spoke  from  gems  or  gold, 
Of  op'ning  lips,  and  sparkling  eyes, 
Rich  in  affection's  sympathies. 


141 


She  turn'd,  and  sought  the  humbler  dome 
Of  her  meek  bosom's  cherish'd  home, 
Where  stood  by  her  maternal  side 
The  children  of  her  heart's  fond  pride. 
Just  in  the  bloom  of  op'ning  youth, 
When  Science  plants  the  seed  of  truth  ; 
When  "  fresh  instruction"  o'er  the  mind 
Wakes  the  young  dawn  of  thought  refin'd  ; 
And  on  each  trait  of  joyful  hope 
Love  fondly  builds  its  dearest  prop. 

She  turn'd  to  her,  whose  gorgeous  load 
No  blessing,  ev'n  on  self,  bostow'd  : 
"  My  jewels,  lady,  wouldst  thou  see  1 
Behold  them  here,  and  envy  me  ! 
The  gold,  the  gems,  be  freely  thine  : 
What  treasure  canst  thou  boast  like  mine  ?" 


TO  A   FRIEND. 


And  could  Affection  prompt  the  word 

Which  so  like  harsh  unkindness  seem'd  1 

Ah  !  deeply,  deeply  hath  it  err'd 

Since,  loved  one  !  thou  couldst  thus  have  deem'd, 


142 

But  yet  thy  heart  shall  know  and  prove 
(If  still  one  lingering  doubt  there  be,) 

That  nought  but  purest,  tenderest  love 
E'er  blent  in  mine  with  thought  of  thee. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  "A.  W.  M."   (MISS  AGNES  WOODS 
MITCHELL,)   OF   GREENVILLE,  TENNESSEE. 


0  thou  who  late  from  life's  last  throb  of  care 
Hast  pass'd  forever!   may  a  stranger  come, 

And  in  the  tribute  of  thy  lov'd  one,  share, 

And  lay  a  lowly  offering  on  thy  tomb  ] 
'Twas  but  thy  heart — thy  mind,  were  known  to  me  : 
Yet  I  can  weep  with  those  who  weep  for  thee. 

1  trace  thy  signature,  and  see  my  own ; 

I  mark  thy  lines  of  life,  and  they  are  mine  ; 
Less  bright  with  heavenly  beauty  round  them  thrown, 

Less  glorious  far,  with  faith  and  hope  divine  : 
Yet  in  thy  outward  pilgrimage  might  claim 
With  thee  a  Sister's  lot — a  Sister's  name. 

Like  thine,  my  home  was  o'er  the  wide,  far  deep, 
And  life's  young  morning  bore  me  thence  away  ; 

While  early  sorrows  taught  my  eyes  to  weep, 
And  suffering's  lessons  taught  my  heart  to  pray; 


14:* 


As  all  alone,  'neath  many  an  adverse  blast, 

My  little  barque  on  time's  rough  surge  was  cast. 

Like  thee,  I  lov'd  the  lyre,  and  early  caught 
A  gentle  comfort  from  its  soothing  tone  ; 

And  as  my  secret  treasury  of  thought 
Was  trusted  to  the  silent  page,  alone, 

Sigh'd  for  their  blessed  path,  to  whom  is  given 

The  power  to  speak  for  righteousness  and  Heaven. 

Like  thine,  my  late  and  early  lot  hath  been 
To  till  the  garden  of  unfolding  mind  ; 

The  intellectual  glow  to  wake  and  win, 

The  blossoms  and  the  sheaves  to  train  and  bind : 

And  pour,  o'er  hearts  in  the  bright  morn  of  youth, 

The  living  light  of  wisdom  and  of  truth. 

Ah  !  that  like  thine,  thro'  time's  deep  waves  of  woe, 
My  spirit  too,  might  struggle  on  to  heaven! 

u  Lord  !  it  is  well  !"* — Father !  that  even  so 
This  aching  breast  may  speak  as  joys  are  riven ! 

And  learn,  (how  hard  to  learn  !)  that  blessed  part, 

Submission's  lesson,  with  a  perfect  heart ! 

Oh  !  too,  like  thee,  ere  time's  protracted  hour 
Might  I  from  earth  and  conflict  pass  away 

With  peace  like  thine  !  the  same  upholding  Power 
My  spirit's  guardian  as  it  leaves  its  clay! 

Thy  God  my  helper  in  the  last — last  strife, 

Thy  Saviour — mine  unto  eternal  life  ! 


*  See  the  beautiful  lines  from  the  pen  of  Miss  Mitchell,  beginning  thus, 
and  entitled  "Submission." 


144 


SABBATH    HYMN. 


Why,  as  returns  this  holy  day, 

And  worldly  cares  aside  I  lay, 

Mounts  heavenward  with  no  livelier  wing 

My  soul,  that  drooping,  earth-hound  thing] 

When  I  would  keep  my  tongue  apart, 
Nor  let  my  lips  beguile  my  heart, 
Why  still  is  treach'rous  fancy  found 
Alighting  on  unhallowed  ground  1 

When  I  would  bend  the  upward  thought 
On  themes  with  heaven  and  glory  fraught, 
Why  oft,  unbidden,  then  intrude 
Cares,  projects,  plans,  for  earthly  good  ? 

When  I  would  fix  the  roving  eye, 
And  guard  its  wand'rings  watchfully, 
Why  yet  will  slide  the  roving  heart 
To  trifles, — from  the  better  part  1 

To  Thee,  O  Lord  of  Life!  I  turn, 
A  lesson  at  Thy  feet  to  learn  : 
There,  humbled,  may  I  feel  and  see 
My  spirit's  strength  alone  in  Thee. 


145 

Aid  Thou  this  sluggish  soul  to  rise 
Anew,  each  Sabbath,  to  the  skies  : 
Life's  cares  to  leave,  and  soar  on  high 
In  converse  with  Eternity. 

Keep  Thou  this  faintly-shielded  breast 
With  Duty's  stricter  seal  impress'd  ; 
Each  word,  each  action  to  control 
Which  mars  a  Sabbath  of  the  soul. 


O  !   may  it  bring  my  straying  feet 
More  near  my  Father's  mercy-seat; 
And  plant  them  firmly  in  the  road 
That  leads  to  blessedness  and  God. 


O  !  may  it  on  my  spirit  pour 
New  strength  for  duty's  active  hour  ; 
New  hopes  impart,  new  grace  convey 
To  guide  through  life's  uneven  way. 

Then  shall  the  week's  first  morning  light 
More  sweetly  break  upon  my  sight : 
Thus  with  its  rising  beams  be  given 
A  day  of  rest  indeed  from  heaven. 

Its  oft-returning  dawn  may  prove 
The  visit  of  a  Father's  love  ; 
And  bring  me,  on  my  heavenly  way, 
The  journey  of  a  Sabbath-day. 

13 


I4H 


SABBATH    THOUGHTS. 


On  the  beams  of  early  morn 
Now  another  week  appears ; 

While  the  last,  in  distance  borne, 
Rests  with  my  departed  years  : 

Time,  as  speeds  his  flight  away, 

Brings  again  the  Sabbath-day. 


Grant  me,  Lord  !  a  mind  prepar'd 
That  may  make  its  blessings  mine  ; 

Such  as  once  of  old  were  shar'd 
By  the  saints,  in  joys  divine, 

When  they  hail'd,  upon  their  way, 

The  returning  Sabbath-day. 


WhiJe  I  take  my  weekly  place 

In  the  house  of  praise  and  prayer ; 

May  the  visits  of  thy  grace 

Sweetly  prove  Thy  presence  there ; 

Blessed,  may  I  humbly  say, 

Is  to  me  the  Sabbath-day. 


147 

Let  my  soul,  on  new-plum'd  wing 
Rise  to  hopes  and  joys  above ; 

And  with  quicken'd  ardor  spring 
Tow'rd  the  home  of  bliss  and  love  : 

Cloth'd  in  faith's  serene  array 

On  the  holy  Sabbath-day. 

May  [  bless  the  gracious  hand 

Which  hath  led  me,  hour  by  hour  ; 

Own  the  past  by  wisdom  plann'd, 
Trust  the  future — in  its  power  : 

Mercies  giv'n,  anew  survey 

On  the  precious  Sabbath-day. 

And,  in  deep  and  fervent  prayer, 
Seek  that  aid,  to  seeking  given ; 

Fainting  faith  and  strength  repair 
From  the  armory  of  heaven  : 

Manna,  for  my  future  way 

Gath'ring,  on  the  Sabbath-day. 

Solemn  musings  then  pursue 

On  the  hope  that  gilds  the  grave  ; 

Death,  compos'd  and  thoughtful,  view, 
Aid  for  life's  last  conflict  crave  : 

And  for  dying  mercies  pray 

On  the  hallow'd  Sabbath-day. 

And,  when  days  and  years  are  past, 
Times  and  seasons  known  no  more, 

Saviour  !  may  I  share  at  last, 

Through  the  blond  which  Thou  didst  pour, 

In  a  house  not  made  of  clay, — 

Heaven's  eternal  Sabbath-day. 


J  4* 


ISAIAH   V.  4-7- 

For  thee,  for  thee,  ungrateful  land  ! 

What  could  I,  that  I  have  not  done  1 
The  soft  south  winds  thy  shores  have  fann'd, 

And  morning  dew,  and  noonday  sun 

And  showers  of  heaven,  their  benizon 
Have  each  in  generous  tribute  lent ; 

Yet  recompense  thou  bring'st  me  none, 
Ungrateful  land  !  but  mercies  spent ! 

Ah  !  vineyard  of  my  chosen  care  ! 

My  soul  is  wearied  out  with  thee  : 
Since  pleasant  fruit  thou  wilt  not  bear, 

Deserted  let  thy  borders  be. 

Blight  shall  destroy  each  cherish'd  tree, 
Briers  and  thorns  around  them  grow, 

And,  in  thy  deep  adversity 
Nor  rain  shall  fall, — nor  springs  shall  flow. 

I  look'd  for  righteousness  : — behold 

Oppression's  voice,  and  misery's  cry  ! 
For  gratitude: — the  heart  is  cold, 

Thankless  the  lip,  unmov'd  the  eye. 

Jerusalem!  how  oft  would  I 
Have  welcom'd  home  thy  wand'ring  band  : 

Yet  now  thy  recomppnse  draws  nigh  ; 
I  cast  thee  off,  ungrateful  land  ! 


14(J 


A    THOUGHT    AT    NIAGARA. 

And  doth  He  care  for  thee? — This  God  of  wonder 
Who  works  thus  fearfully  His  mighty  will] 

Yes !    He  whose  voice  speaks  in  this  torrent's  thunder 
'Mid  its  o'erwhelming  strength, — is  thy  God  still! 

Be  calm,  my  soul!    Though  thought's  weak  pulses  falter, 
He  whose  blest  promise  time  nor  place  can  alter, 
Waits,  even  here,  to  come  with  thee  apart 
In  the  low  temple  of  a  contrite  heart. 

Niagara— 1845. 


THE    HOUR    OF    SADNESS. 

WRITTEN  AT  AN  EARLY  AGE,  BEFORE  DEATH  HAD  INVADED  THE  CIRCLE 
OF    THE    WRITER'S    FRIENDS. 

What  is  the  hour  of  saddest  ill 

My  soul  hath  known  1 
That  waken'd  to  its  keenest  thrill 

The  heart's  deep  tone  1 
13* 


150 

Was  it  the  hour  of  anxious  feeling, 

Of  painful  care  1 
When  every  moment  came,  revealing 

New  throbbings  there! 
No: — "cares  have  comforts  :"*  and  amid 

Their  deepest  gloom, 
A  balsam-spirit  oft  is  hid 

Of  radiant  bloom. 

Was  it  when  sickness  shed  depression 

On  Life's  strong  flame'? 
When  suffering  threw  her  pale  expression 

O'er  my  wan  frame  1 
No : — these  were  moments,  blest  to  me 

With  purest  light ; 
In  spirit,  still  serene  and  free, 

In  comforts,  bright. 

Then,  has  it  been  in  deprivation 

Of  Joy's  clear  ray, 
When  storms  of  outward  tribulation 

Clouded  the  day  1 
No.- — through  these  little  mists,  my  soul 

Hath  brightly  risen, 
And  felt  that  they  could  not  control 

Her  own  high  heaven. 

But  there  are  mournful,  prison'd  hours, 
Of  mind — of  motive  sear, 

Of  slumb'ring  purpose — waning  powers, 
A  torpor,  dull  and  drear. 

*  Young. 


151 

When  fetter'd  seems  the  inward  spring 
Of  life,  and  strength,  and  glow, 

And  the  weak  spirit's  nerveless  wing 
Is  bending — faint  and  low  ! 

These  are  the  hours  of  saddest  ill 

My  soul  hath  known  ; 
And  these  have  wak'd  to  keenest  thrill 

Feeling's  deep  tone. 


SALOME. 


MATT.   XX.    20-23. 


Bow'd  at  the  Saviour's  feet,  and  meekly  kneeling, 
A  prostrate  one  preferr'd  her  earnest  prayer ; 

A  prayer  impell'd  by  nature's  holiest  feeling, 
For  'twas  a  mother's  soul  was  striving  there  : 

She  brought  those  lov'd  ones,  her  full  heart's  fond  pride, 

And  bent  them  with  her  low,  as  suppliants  by  her  side. 

Not  for  the  spoils  and  gifts  of  earth  she  pleaded, 

Round  their  young  brows  a  glowing  wreath  to  bind  ; 

But  in  her  bosom's  fervor,  interceded, 

That  honor  from  their  God,  their  souls  might  find  : 

That,  rich  in  grace,  and  near  their  Lord's  right  hand, 

Triumphing  high  in  heav'n,  those  precious  ones  might  stand, 


152 


And  did  that  Saviour  grant  her  earnest  pray'r  1 

That  earnest  pray'r  that  seem'd  so  true  to  heaven  1 

Ah!  haply  touch  of  earth  was  mingling  there 
In  the  full  heart,  by  anxious  fondness  riven: 

Perchance  with  love  some  soft  ambition  blent, 

Filling  that  fervid  voice  with  ardor  eloquent. 

"  Ye  know  not  what  ye  ask !" — then  mildly  came 
From  lips  which  opened  but  to  bless  and  save  ; 

"  And  can  ye  drink  my  cup  of  woe  and  shame, 
And  wash  you  in  my  deep,  baptismal  wave  1 

And  can  ye  make  that  cup  indeed  your  own, 

And  through  that  parted  wave,  your  footsteps  follow  on  1 

"  As  for  my  cup,  ye  shall  indeed  partake  it; 

As  for  my  baptism,  ye  its  depths  shall  prove  : 
But  'tis  not  mine  your  heritage  to  make  it 

In  that  distinction  ye  have  ask'd  above : 
'Tis  His  alone  to  give,  who  sits  on  high, 
Filling  with  counsels  vast,  His  own  Eternity. 

"Would  ye  be  great  where  all  is  pure  and  holy  1 
Ah  !  seek  not,  ev'n  in  heav'n,  a  lofty  spot : 

Learn  from  my  word  of  truth,  all  meek  and  lowly, 
To  serve  your  God,  tho'  meed  of  praise  were  not. 

And  in  that  world  of  light,  around  His  Throne, 

The  lowliest  of  His  saints  perfected  bliss  shall  own. 


153 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN    IN    A    BLANK    LEAF    OF     MISS     JEWSBURY'S     "  LETTERS    TO    THE 
YOUNG/'  AFTER  READING  A  NOTICE  OF  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 

I  would  not  win  thee  back  to  earth, 

O  soul  of  purest,  loveliest  mould  ; 
Nor  wish  the  dwelling  of  thy  birth 

Again  within  an  earthly  fold  : 

And  yet  to  know  that  heart  is  cold, 
Which  through  these  pages  spoke  to  mine, 

Wakes  thoughts  of  sadness  uncontroll'd, 
And  feelings  that  would  nigh  repine. 

That  heart  is  cold'? — Ah  no! — above, 

Far,  far,  where  strikes  the  seraph's  lyre, 
It  glows  with  more  than  mortal  love, 

And  thrills  with  more  than  mortal  fire  : 

High  ranging  thro'  th'  angelic  choir 
To  praise,  and  joy,  its  powers  are  giv'n  : 

But  who,  till  time  and  death  expire, 
Can  tell  its  bliss] — safe — safe  in  heaven  ? 

I  joy  for  thee  :  that  now  no  more 

Enfeebling  sin  can  cloud  thy  soul  ; 
Or  earthly  sorrow's  dimming  power 

Devotion's  sacred  nights  control  : 


154 

That  lights  and  shades  which  haply  stole 
Across  thy  mental  path  below, 

Have  pass'd  away  ;  and  thought  can  roll 
In  ceaseless  transport's  holy  glow! 

But  we  have  lost  thee  :  nor  again 
Our  eyes  may  trace  instruction's  line 

In  lovely  impress  from  thy  pen, 
Teaching  the  soul  of  truths  divine: 
With  words  of  sweetness  all  benign 

Guiding  the  christian  pilgrim  on, 
And  bidding  the  young  heart  resign 

Its  idols  to  the  Holy  One. 

Yet  oh  !  'tis  sweet  to  turn  this  page 
Of  christian  love's  pure  offering, 

And  think,  should  aught  thy  soul  engage 
Perchance,  of  earthly  thought  or  thing 
From  where  thou  roam'st  on  angel  wing, 

If  to  these  leaves  one  glance  be  given, 
Thou  would'st  not  mark  a  line,  to  bring 

One  sorrowing  retrospect  from  heaven. 

/cannot  tread  where  thou  hast  trod, 

And  bless,  and  charm,  and  teach,  like  thee 

Plac'd  on  the  altar  of  our  God, 
Far  lowlier  tribute  mine  must  be : 
But  yet,  where  angels  bow  the  knee, 

In  one  sweet  song  our  praise  may  blend  ; 
And,  in  that  bright  Eternity, 

My  soul  may  know  thee  as  a  friend  ! 


155 


LINES 


WRITTEN    AFTER    READING    THE    LIFE    AND    REMAINS  OF   JANE    TAYLOR, 
AUTHORESS    OF    "  DISPLAY,"    "  ORIGINAL    POEMS,"  ETC. 


It  was  not  thine  to  wake  the  lyre 

Of  deepest,  loftiest  tone  : 
It  was  not  thine  with  thrilling  fire 
Of  Mind  and  Genius  to  aspire 

To  Fame's  precarious  throne  : 
And  yet  more  dear  than  these  to  me, 
Would  be  the  laurels  earned  by  thee. 

For  from  thy  pure  and  hallow'd  leaves 

Comes  forth  a  voice  of  love, 
Of  holy  love,  which  ne'er  deceives, 
Of  steadfast  faith,  w7hich  still  believes, 

And  points  to  things  above  : 
It  calls  on  those  around,  to  come, 
And  seek  wTith  thee,  in  heaven,  a  home. 

When  too,  I  mark  thee  as  thou  wert 

In  Friendship's  social  sphere, 
I  seem  to  meet  a  kindred  heart 
To  which  my  own  would  fain  impart 

Each  feeling,  joy,  or  tear  : 
I  feel  my  soul  with  thine  would  blend, 
And  could  have  loved  thee  as  its  friend. 


156 

And  while  I  trace  thy  mental  scene, 

So  touchingly  portrayed, 
Sorrows,  from  earth  thy  soul  that  wean, 
Bright  hopes  of  heaven,  with  clouds  between, 

Alternate  light  and  shade  ; 
I  seem  to  view  where  /  have  trod 
Along  my  own  weak  path  to  God. 

That  path  to  thee  is  past ;  and  now 

Each  anxious  doubt  is  o'er; 
No  sorrow  clouds  thy  peaceful  brow, 
While,  moor'd  in  heavenly  safety,  thou 

Dost  gratefully  adore  : 
An  angel's  glowing  harp  is  thine, 
And  friendships,  deathless,  and  divine. 

Yet  the  sweet  fragrance  of  thy  name 
Long,  long  below  shall  dwell ; 

And  still  its  mild  persuasive  claim 

Shall  many  a  youthful  heart's  best  aim 
To  life  and  love  impel : 

Yes,  from  the  dead  thy  voice  is  heard 

Aiding  the  kingdom  of  thy  Lord. 


Oh  !   were  on  me  the  mantle  thrown 

Which  to  thy  soul  was  given, 
How  would  I  make  thy  path  my  own, 
And  plead,  with  deep,  resistless  tone, 
The  cause  of  Truth  and  Heaven  ! 
That,  e'en  like  thine,  my  feebler  breath 
Might  speak  in  life,  and  warn  from  death  ! 


157 

For  me  an  humbler  road  is  cast 
Through  time's  obscurity  ; 

Yet  I  can  share  thy  home  at  last ; 

And  when  the  storms  of  earth  are  past, 
O  !   may  I  find  in  thee 

Through  our  Redeemer's  precious  love, 

A  sister  in  the  world  above. 


THE    GUIDES    OF    LIFE. 

WRITTEN    AT    SIXTEEN. 

Feeling  !  sweet  Feeling  !  o'er  the  bosom's  sphere 
How  bright,  how  warm,  thy  soft  perceptions  glow! 

Wake  the  blest  thrill  of  virtue's  swelling  tear. 
Bid  the  fine  springs  of  sweet  sensation  flow, 

And  tint,  with  hues  and  sympathies  more  dear, 
Each  source  of  joy  refin'd  our  spirits  know. 

But,  lofty  Principle!  on  thee  the  soul 

Builds  her  sublime  foundation  :  thou  canst  rise 
With  purer,  with  more  glorious  energies, 

And  guide  the  heart  beneath  thy  high  control : 

Firm  through  Life's  shifting  scenes  of  changeful  guise, 

Still  bend  it  on,  where  Duty  points  its  goal  ! 

Join,  heavenly  twain  !  let  one  direct  our  way, 
The  other  light  each  scene  with  her  illuming  ray  ! 
14 


158 


WRITTEN  AFTER  READING  CARLETON'S  TALE  OF 


THE  CLAKMET;"  A  STORY  OF  A  BLIND  COUPLE. 


How  oft  the  tear-drops  stealing 

Found  quietly  their  way, 
As  that  pure  page  of  feeling 

Outspread  before  me  lay  ! 
It  seem'd,  while  unrepressing 

Their  gentle,  peaceful  flow, 
Almost  a  lot  of  blessing 

Was  yours  of  love  and  woe ! 

Oh  !  children  of  deep  sorrow  ! 

My  soul's  full  fount  has  gush'd, 
Yearning  from  yours  to  borrow 

Lessons  of  faith  and  trust : 
The  child-like,  meek  endurance, 

The  anchor  fix'd  above, 
The  calm  and  sweet  assurance 

Which  breathes  in  "  God  is  Love  !' 

Ye  found  Him  such :  and  leaning 

On  His  kind  father-hand, 
The  ears  of  comfort  gleaning 

That  fell  at  His  command  ; 


159 

What  deeper,  richer  treasure 
Than  wealth  or  power  e'er  knew, 

Have  they,  in  countless  measure, 
Who  live — and  love, — like  you 


CONSOLATION    FOR    THE    AFFLICTEID. 


What  is  there,  for  a  heart  that  has  been  crush'd  1 
That,  by  one  sorrow,  has  seen  life's  spell  broken? 

WThose  fond,  fond  visions  the  dark  grave  hath  hush'd, 
Whose  buried  hopes  lie  silent  now — unspoken  1 

There  is  one  refuge  :  it  may  seek  that  God 
Who  gave,  who  took,  in  His  mysterious  will  ; 

And,  leaning  on  His  staff,  kiss  too  His  rod, 

Tho'  the  poor  heart  must  ache  with  anguish  still. 

There  is  one  solace  ;  it  with  those  may  feel 
Who,  like  itself,  are  wounded,  faint,  and  torn  ; 

May  sorrow  for  the  griefs  it  cannot  heal, 
May  give  at  least  its  tear,  to  all  that  mourn. 

Life  hath  no  balsam  for  a  heart  thus  riven, 

Save  to  love  all  below — and  lean,  in  faith,  on  Heaven  ! 


160 


MY    HEART    WITHIN    ME    WAS    DESOLATE/ 


It  was  an  awful  hour, 

Fearful  to  mem'ry  yet, 
Whose  conflict  deep,  whose  crushing  power 

Ne'er  can  my  soul  forget. 

I  pray'd  that  I  might  lie 

Soon,  'neath  the  sod  so  lowly  ; 

And  yet  I  could  not — did  not  die, 
Blessed  be  God  most  holy ! 

He  whisper'd  life  was  dear 

To  those  who  live  for  Him  : 
That  it  were  not  to  such,  all  drear, 

Nor  all  its  beauty,  dim. 

I  look'd  around  :  oh  how 

Could  I  an  offering  find  ? 
Nor  wealth,  nor  strength,  was  mine  to  vow, 

Nor  a  ighty  power  of  mind. 

I  took  the  pen  :  that  pen 

I  had  thought  laid  forever, 
Since  one  dear  voice,  of  it  again 

Could  speak  in  kindness, — never. 


161 

And  might  it  work  for  heaven  ? 

Might  it  accepted  be  1 
This  little  pledge1?  might  it  be  given, 

In  off'ring,  Lord,  to  Thee  ? 

For  Thee,  oh  !  may  it  speak  1 

For  Thine,  oh !  may  it  plead  1 
Then,  sorrowing  one,  though  bruis'd  and  weak, 

Thou'rt  not  a  broken  reed. 

If  thou  mayst  wake  one  strain 

Thy  God  to  glorify, 
Call  one  sad  heart,  from  earth's  deep  pain 

To  lift  an  upward  eye  ; 

Plead  for  a  brother's  wrong, 

Speak  for  a  sister's  sorrow, — 
This  gently  shall  thy  life  prolong 

Till  that  bright  coming  morrow 

When  child  and  parent  meet, 

And,  ne'er  again  to  sever, 
Spirits  made  pure  !  in  union  sweet 

Walk — side  by  side — forever. 


MY  STRENGTH  IS  MADE  PERFECT  IN  WEAKNESS." 

Yes,  the  chain'd  soul,  that  ne'er  has  dar'd  to  rise, 
Ne'er  stretch'd  to  excellence  its  nerveless  wing, 

May  rest  content  with  earth's  poor  trumperies, 
Nor  frame  a  wish  beyond  their  tinsel  ring. 
14* 


162 

But  oh  !  the  heart,  that  once  aloft  lias  risen 

To  high  aspirings,  hopes  of  purest  die, 
That,  in  its  aims,  has  view'd  an  opening  heaven 

Before  its  gaze  in  glowing  prospect  lie  ; 
When  it  on  slacken'd  wing,  again  sinks  down 

All  faint  and  feeble,  falt'ring  on  its  road, 
Where  shall  it  seek  for  solace  1 — sad  and  lone, 

Can  life's  light  trifles  ease  that  bosom-load  1 
Lo  !  it  has  fed  with  angels  !  can  it  form 
Its  banquet  on  the  manna  of  the  worm? 

No  !   but  a  Father's  love  is  ever  near 

To  guide  the  weeping  wand'rer's  homeward  way; 
He — He  has  seen  each  conflict,  cloud — and  fear, 

And  He  will  lead  the  feet  that  feebly  stray. 
Ah  !  fainting  pilgrim  !  trust  a  Parent-God  ! 

He  yet  will  own  the  recreant,  and  will  bless ; 
Had  no  depressions  mark'd  thy  spirit's  road, 

Thou  might'st  have  sought  a  Heavenly  Helper,  less. 
O !  let  them  teach  thee,  where  to  lift  thine  eye  ; 

Where,  an  entreating  suppliant,  to  bend; 
Then  from  the  veil  of  low  humility, 

To  Faith's  high  ground  thou  may'st  at  length  ascend. 
Yes  !  there  is  refuge  left ! — and  there  shall  be 
Joy  in  a  Father's  household  yet — for  thee  ! 


163 


THE    PLEASURES    OF    OUR   DAILY    PATHS. 

It  is  the  mind  that  makes  the  charm 

Of  novelty  or  quiet  : 
It  is  the  mind  can  ever  form 

Its  own  sustaining  diet. 
The  stillness  of  the  stillest  home 
May  keep  full  bright  thought's  sparkling  foam; 
For  'tis  not  they  who  oft'nest  roam, 

That  are  the  richest  by  it. 

The  sunlight  on  a  common  scene 

Its  golden  tissue  throwing, 
The  simplest  shrub  of  modest  green 

In  home's  small  garden  growing, — 
Will,  for  its  true  observer,  spread 
A  feast  of  pleasures,  that  were  shed 
Not  on  the  vacant  heart,  or  head, 

From  earth's  whole  gorgeous  glowing. 

Some  might  on  vast  Niagara  gaze 

In  its  bright  summer  glory, 
Or  mark  where  sunset's  varying  rays 

Flush  up  the  Alp,  all  hoary, — 
Or  pierce  wild  caverns,  deep  and  rude, 
Or  stand  where  vent'rous  Saussure  stood, 
Nor  feel  one  throb  of  quicker  blood, 

Than  at  some  fireside  story. 


1G4 

The  tow-path  of  Life's  hourly  way 
To  thoughtful  minds  is  shining 

With  gems  of  quickly  shifting  ray 
Their  many  lights  combining, 

With  gentle  pictures  from  about, 

With  stars  for  ever  shining  out, 

That  rarely  might  be  seen,  I  doubt, 
Where  empty  ones  are  pining. 

O  !  ever  keep  an  open  eye 

To  beauty  and  to  gladness  ; 
To  all  the  joys  which  near  thee  lie, 

'Mid  many  things  of  sadness  ! 
Look  round  !  on  this  fair  world  of  ours, 
With  briers  pierc'd,  yet  strew'd  with  flowers 
And,  if  unblest  pass  by  thy  hours, 

Thine,  folly  is, — or  madness. 


HEBREWS   XII.  1-2. 

Christians  !  rise  from  torpor's  sleep  ! 
Rise  to  ponder  !  wake  to  weep  ! 
Yes  !  to  weep,  that  on  your  way 
Faith  should  shed  so  faint  a  ray  ! 

See  !  the  witnesses  around 
Watch  the  gospel-cultur'd  ground  : 
Mourn  they  not  a  heav'n-blest  soil 
Till'd  with  slow  neglectful  toil  1 


165 

Leave  the  past!  uprise  anew! 
Heaven  will  yield  its  living  dew  ; 
Brighter  ev'ry  grace  will  beam, 
Ev'ry  gift  more  freely  stream. 

Farther,  deeper  pierce  the  veil 
Of  your  heart's  too  mournful  tale! 
Lowly,  lowlier  bend  in  pray'r, 
Owning  all  its  coldness  there  ! 

Oh  !  the  world,  with  keen  survey, 
Joys  to  mark  your  feeble  way  ; 
Triumphs  o'er  your  low  desires, 
And  your  spirits'  drooping  fires. 

Then  let  pray'r  more  fervent  be, 
Deeper,  mental  scrutiny  ! 
Rise,  on  pinions  not  your  own, 
And  abide  beneath  the  Throne  ! 

Yes — with  warmer,  purer  love, 
Let  your  souls  ascend  above! 
Yes — in  bonds  more  close — more  dear, 
Be  those  souls  united  here  ! 

Yet,  when  inward  still  you  turn, 
Still  must  sadden'd  feeling  mourn; 
Still  must  sorrow  deepen'd  be, 
All  your  languid  love  to  see. 

Then,  more  freely  cast  away 
All  but  one, — the  sinner's  slay  ! 
Lean  with  humbler,  firmer  claim, 
On  the  lov'd  Redeemer's  name  ! 


166 

Bending  low  in  heav'n-ward  prayer, 
Plead  an  Intercessor  there  ; 
And  your  glad  salvation  own 
Of,  and  through,  the  Cross  alone! 

Onward,  onward,  press  your  way 
To  the  shores  of  endless  day  ! 
Faint  not,  ere  the  race  be  run  ! 
Rest  not,  till  the  prize  is  won! 


HYMN, 

WRITTEN    BY    REQUEST,    TO    BE    SUNG     AT   AN     ANNIVERSARY     OF    SABBATH 
SCHOOL    CHILDREN. 

Lord  !  to  our  little  round  of  years, 

Another  thou  hast  given; 
And  still  Thy  constant  kindness  cheers 

And  blesses  us,  from  heaven. 

Through  ceaseless  mercies,  let  us  trace 

Our  Father's  guardian  care  ; 
And  pour  our  infant  hearts  in  praise, 

And  breathe  their  wants  in  prayer. 

In  prayer :  for  grace  to  guide  our  will, 

And  teach  us  from  above  : 
In  praise  :  for  Thou  art  waiting  still 

To  bless  us  with  thy  love. 

Jesus  !  Thy  voice  may  we  discern  ; 

Thy  gracious  calls  obey  ; 
And  early  choose,  and  grateful  learn 

The  Life — the  Truth — the  Way. 


167 


TO    ,    AND   . 

It  were  not  meet  for  languor  to  enchain 

My  drooping  muse,  and  leave  her  useless  lyre 
Silent  and  sad,  while  Friendship  should  inspire 

The  voice  of  pleas'd  affection.     Can  its  strain 

Delight  your  ear,  lov'd  sisters  1  and  remain 
Unwaken'd  still  ]     My  little  all  receive, 
A  pale  young  blossom  ;  haply  it  may  live 

Beneath  your  smile.     Oh  !  may  the  untold  reign 
Of  coming  years,  still  find  our  friendship  true  ! 

On  Mind's  foundation  built,  its  truth  survive 
Time's  flitting  changes,  and  our  pathway  strew 
With  many  a  thornless  rose! — So,  when  arrive 
Life's  latter  days,  our  hearts  may  view  it  giv'n 
As  one  of  Earth's  few  sweets,  that  help'd  to  lead  to  heaven. 


THE    POET. 


Thoughts  which  the  full  heart  longs  to  speak, 
Thoughts  for  which  words  are  all  too  weak, 
Burn  in  his  bosom,  flush  his  cheek, 

And  can  he  shroud  them  silently  ] 
No:   bursting  from  their  narrow  tomb, 
Not  bright,  like  butterfly  in  bloom, 
Yet  joyous  as  its  wings,  they  come, 

And  long  to  mount  as  buoyantly. 


168 

He  feels  as  if  he  fain  would  dare 
To  fling  them  on  the  wafting  air: 
Perchance  an  answering  breast  may  share 

Some  thought  in  all  its  fervency  : 
Hope  says  that  thought  will  sure  find  one 
Whose  heart-pulse,  in  according  tone 
Shall  swell  responsive  to  his  own, 

'Mid  Life's  surrounding  apathy. 

Forth  goes  his  little  timid  sail 
To  try  the  kind  or  adverse  gale  ; 
To  mark  if  one,  on  ocean,  hail 

And  greet  it,  pleas'd  and  lovingly  : 
Doth  one  salute  it  as  a  friend, 
One  brow  a  smile  of  gladness  lend, 
One  gentle  pennon's  white  form  bend, 

And  welcome  it  approvingly  1 

He  knows  not! — it  is  hidden  all 
If  one  eye  brighten,  one  tear  fall, 
One  spirit  meet  his  spirit's  call, 

And  bear  its  trembling  venture  through  : 
That  trembling  venture  goes  afloat, — 
Who — who  will  love  the  songster's  note, 
Who  kindly  bless  the  heart  that  wrote  1 

And  Echo  coldly  answers — "  Who  ?" 


